UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel

by Alisha Klapheke

  In two strokes, Lucca had the engineer free.

  The man couldn’t seem to stop talking, but they had no idea what he was saying. The other Invaders answered him, their talk awed, afraid. The engineer only seemed excited as he gave Seren a quick bow.

  Meekra’s voice came out of the dark behind us. “I know you said not to bow and give you away, but what you did…that wasn’t exactly discreet.”

  Seren turned to a group of warriors, five or so untrained men and women from the city, and Izzet, Qadira, as well as two of the older male cousins from Clan Azjorr. Everyone carried a bag or sack—hopefully supplies to make more weapons—and some held the ready pots uncovered.

  Izzet giggled a little hysterically. “Thank you for trusting us to support you, Kyros Seren.”

  Seren smiled. “Thank you for agreeing to come. And Qadira…I have to say I’m pretty surprised.”

  The girl huffed. “It’s not like I have much of a choice,” she replied, sticking with the desert tongue. Seren knew the girl couldn’t resist any chance to be exclusive. “My entire clan is behind you. Even if they can’t all show their faces here right now.”

  Cansu’s long face wore a grim smile. Hossam walked beside him, his bushy hair like a storm around his wide face. Erol glided through the moonlight, frowning as ever, as he brought up the rear with nine other warriors. Meekra had brought Barir too.

  Meekra held out the leather vest she’d ordered for Seren. A phoenix spread silver and copper wings over the black leather. Bronze studs flickered in the moonlight. With reverent movements, careful and solemn, Seren accepted the vest. She temporarily removed her ore master cloak and slid the vest over her head. She tied the side laces up herself, adjusted her sash, and put the cloak on again, keeping the front open for the time being so she could see the phoenix. She looked up and Meekra nodded approvingly.

  The vest felt right even though it covered most of her kaftan’s fine embroidery. This was her. Kyros and General. A true leader as Meric had never been. A lover of the people as Varol never would be. This was who her people needed and this was who she would be. An image of the Holy Fire blazed in her mind’s eye. Warmth flowed through her veins as she smiled gravely at Meekra, Lucca, and the rest. She refused to disappoint them. She would prevail. They would win. The Invaders would be destroyed and Varol would be brought to his knees, thankful for what the Holy Fire had shown her.

  Wind tossed her hair around her as she stood tall and held her arms open wide. “The Fire in me burns to see you. We have to keep this secret as long as we can.”

  Meekra covered her lips to hide a nervous laugh. “Well, perhaps you should stop making such bright sparks with this handsome Silvanian.”

  “Hush, you.” Seren gestured toward the engineer. “Please, Barir, will you look after his hands? We need him at his best. Alert. He is the brains of this operation.”

  Meekra urged a man in a pale brown kaftan to the front. The interpreter. Seren took a breath, and her engineer smiled despite the pain he was surely in.

  Lucca leaned left to see the whole of our small band. “Meekra, did you speak with Haris? I hadn’t seen him with Kaptan Ona’s unit, so I wondered if he…if he escaped that…duty.”

  Her face bunched as she translated the trade tongue. “No. In market maybe. But not.” She faced me and switched to the desert tongue. “I thought I saw the soldier he is talking about. But when I looked again, he was gone.”

  Lucca rubbed a hand over his face. Seren wished she could hold his head in her lap and wash his fear away with her fingertips and lips.

  “I think he went with Nuh,” Lucca said. “To the front. With Ona. He didn’t have much of choice. Like Nuh. They had him and would’ve killed him.”

  “No time to worry about it now,” Seren said. “The red tent’s been raised. There’ll be no mercy for any man if they win. And at the end of this awful night, the black will go up.” Her throat tightened, and she pushed her grief for Ona off her mind.

  Meekra’s hands fisted in her kaftan. “What does the black mean?”

  “Death to all. Every man, woman, and child, if the Invaders take the city. There’s no use in worrying. We have to create more of these terrible weapons and do our best to thwart the enemy. We will not go down so easily.”

  Cansu clapped a hand on Lucca’s back and they set themselves to the dangerous plan.

  33

  VAROL

  The men, slaves and warriors alike, scattered like mice as Varol hurled his helmet through the tent flap and stormed to the bowl of Holy Fire. The distraction of five full units and the false retreat had failed. They’d fought through the night. Only pulled back at sunrise. As Varol waved hands over the Holy Flame, words flashed out of his mouth, almost painful.

  “Holy Fire. I need you now. I need ideas. I need more men. What can you do for me? I am your kyros, leader of the only people in the world who properly honor your Flame.”

  He wiped a hand, two hands, over the licking heat, his heart hammering his bones. It sounded too much like the Invaders’ ladders bracing against the walls his forefathers built. But no ideas came, no flame curled from his hands, heart, or mind.

  The Invaders would take this city. They’d kill Varol in the worst possible way. Cut limb from limb. Dragged by horses in opposite directions. Crucified upside down. Only their imaginations would limit them.

  Why had he even come here? Foolish. This city was a lost cause. He should’ve regrouped in Jakobden or farther north. Now these pigs would grind their way through his family’s lands, foul the earth, and muddle his people’s blood even further.

  This was all because of that woman.

  Seren, Pearl of the Desert. Ha. She was no pearl. Yes, she had lovely eyes and a body that would make any man’s blood rise, but she was no woman of the desert. Her soul lacked the passion of the desert’s heat, the voice of the wind across the plains. She was weak. She should’ve kept to the high-caste women’s gossip and made children. She’d done nothing but harm the Empire. She claimed she loved the people, but what did her actions show?

  She’d taken that Silvanian, Lucca Hand of Ruination, as a lover. She’d thrown off Varol’s own brother, a virile man with royal blood for a green-tinged mercenary. Varol spat onto the rugs and fisted his hands over the Holy Fire. He’d enjoyed the female mercenary’s company, but he never, ever would’ve chosen her over a woman of his own land, his own desert blood.

  The Fire wasn’t giving him anything. Why? He was worthy. More worthy than anyone alive. The orange tongues flickered and went out. He kicked the pedestal. The holy bowl rolled and crashed to the ground.

  “Kyros!” Adem stopped at the entrance to the tent, his mouth dropping open. He held a roll of parchment.

  Varol jerked it from his grip. “What’s this? More foul news? Can’t you give me some strategy? What good are you?”

  Adem raised a palm and bowed.

  Varol snorted. “A bit late, don’t you think? Stick with shocked shouts of my title. It’s more in tune with my mood, General.”

  “My kyros, the missive shows our numbers and theirs. And the last count on arrowheads we have in the city as well as our food supply, which is quickly dwindling.”

  A red heat rose inside Varol. He launched himself at the General, dagger going to the old man’s throat. Varol held it there against his pale, wrinkled skin, Varol’s mouth at the general’s ear. “I hear the judgment in your tone. Your people always have that sneering edge to their words, even when you speak the proper tongue.” Varol moved the blade to Adem’s mouth. “Maybe I should cut the sickly attitude from your mouth.”

  “As you wish, my kyros.”

  To his credit, the man didn’t shake. Not at all.

  Varol released him and sheathed his steel. “Good answer. And you are in luck, my friend. I have an idea.”

  Varol glanced at the Fire bowl, askew at the corner of the red and blue rug. He motioned to a slave, who hurried to pick up the copper basin, refill it with lahabshjara leav
es, and relight the Fire.

  Pacing helped Varol think. “We’ll send out another force with axes. Their aim will be to cut down those ladders, to destroy them beyond repair. A ring of our most skilled warriors will surround them with shields and—”

  His guards and two others burst into the tent, panting and sweating. A river of blood poured from the younger man’s brow. Dark circles ringed the older warrior’s eyes. They both raised palms and bent.

  Varol waved a hand, impatient. “Speak. Speak.”

  Adem jerked his head at the Fire bowl and they each headed over to pay their respects and say a prayer.

  “We have no time for that!” Varol motioned to a slave to bring the older one to him. “Tell me what I need to know.” The slave grabbed the man by the sleeve and pulled him to the table.

  The warrior rubbed one of his puffed, dark eyes with a rough hand. “The Pearl of the Desert has escaped.”

  “From her cell? Who reported this? Where are Badi and Hanif?” They’d sworn they locked her in the secret cell. No one knew where that was.

  The younger fighter stepped forward. “This is more important, my kyros. There is a breach. In the south wall. The Invaders, they’re driving through the break we repaired last season!”

  Varol’s heart burned black. “Send the blue and gold units to the breach. The general and I are right behind you.” The older of the reporting warriors started out of the tent. “You. Find Seren. If she is still in the city, find her and report back to me. Do not act. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, my kyros.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Haris, my kyros.”

  With a nod, Varol left his new spy and headed into the new day to mount his steed and see how long he had to live.

  THE CITY WAS EERILY quiet as Varol and his guard wove through the tents and over the canals to the south wall. The sun soared, already clearing the walls. That damned black tent was out there. Sitting in Varol’s plains like a blight about to spread plague. He could not let them win. If he did, he’d forever be the kyros who lost the Empire. For all the ages, he’d be the beaten snake, the husk of what used to be a proud line of rulers.

  Digging heels into his horse’s sides, he spurred them faster toward the first Invaders ever to force their way into Akhayma’s walls.

  Varol reined in as the group approached the break in the striped stone. Already, twenty or more Invaders had climbed through the formerly plastered crack and were engaged with Empire warriors. They were big men. So much taller, broader than Varol remembered. What had their kind been like before drought took their green lands and turned them to dust? They must’ve been grotesque. Like giant, pale beasts.

  “Larger only means a louder sound when they fall,” Varol said to himself, recalling his father’s words. “General Adem! You and yours move to the area there by the smaller canal. I’ll cut off their leading head.”

  But Adem wasn’t beside him. He didn’t ride up next to the warriors to Varol’s back either.

  “Where is the General?”

  A shout spewed from outside the wall’s crack and another clutch of enemies broached the barrier, foreign swords flashing in the sun.

  Varol leaped from his saddle and drew his steel. Spinning and cutting, they were no match for him and his royal blood. The only reason the Empire was losing to these people was because there were so many of the beasts.

  Varol and his men slashed throats and Onaratta would’ve said, painted the ground with their blood. Varol ducked another blow and slid his sword clean through a shin, meat and bone nothing to Akhayma steel. Warmth rushed over him. What a power he had in his hands. The steel born of his blood and his land.

  Two more dead. Another. Another. The Empire warriors were beating them back. Only six Invaders still stood on this side of the wall.

  Hanif galloped around Varol and ordered a group of men and women to block up the crack. Good man that he was, he set an additional archer on the walls above to keep the enemies at bay while they stuffed the crack with plaster and rock and whatever else they could get their hands on, whatever would make it difficult for the Invaders.

  “Yes, Hanif! Very good!” Varol swung his weapon over his left shoulder and arced the metal down, separating a man from his head. “Is Badi at the cell?” he shouted above the din.

  “No, my kyros.” Hanif took an arrow to the arm, a wayward shot from over the parapet. He grunted, broke the end off, and cut down a man heading for his repair crew.

  “Where is he?”

  “At the front, my kyros. The Invaders are gaining ground. Our archers are slowing. Fatigue, my kyros.”

  “The ladders!” one of Varol’s shouted from behind. “They’ve cleared the top of the walls, my kyros!”

  “Holy Fire save us!”

  With a push kick to the man he fought, Varol freed himself from the fight. His mount stomped beside the nearest canal, smart eyes on Varol. He whistled and the horse flew to his side. Varol was mounted and galloping before he could look again for Adem. Maybe the general heard the report as he rode in the back of the group. Maybe he knew about the ladders.

  Varol rose up in his saddle, the tassels whipping his thighs and the wind tearing at his hair. Varol had to get to him, formulate some strategy. If they didn’t pull this nightmare together, in hours, they’d all be dead, no matter who supported who as leader.

  34

  SEREN

  Seren didn’t want to sleep. If she did, she might wake up to Lucca in chains. Or everyone in Akhayma dead. But her body was still only a body and it hadn’t rested in what felt like years. The scrape of sandals and boots on grit and the muttering of her loyal group working together to create more clay pot explosives filled her ears as she settled onto the straw in Fig’s old stall. The black of the scorched roof beams and the sun through the partially burned out wall pressed on her eyes like pointing fingers.

  “Just for an hour,” Lucca said, throwing a horse blanket over me. It was hot, but she was shivering anyway.

  “Wake me if anything…”

  WHEN SHE OPENED HER EYES, Lucca was curled up beside her and the sky had gone a vicious red. She scooted closer and made her shape fit Lucca’s, pushing wakefulness away, denying what tonight would be. The black tent was up. Had been all day. Death was close enough to hear, taste, smell. Seren breathed against Lucca’s back, driving fear away, enjoying the press of his body on her chest. His voice rumbled through them both.

  “I wish Death wasn’t slithering up our trail,” he whispered, his voice raspy. “I’d be doing more than sleeping.”

  Hot shivers rose along her neck and fell over her shoulders and down her legs. She pressed her cheek against his shirt. “So would I.”

  He spun. “Ah. Forget Death. We have plenty of time to die.” His hands slid around the back of her neck, soft and certain.

  “I’m not entirely sure that makes sense,” she said.

  Lucca’s lips moved along her neck. If she stayed here, it’d be a lovely way to die. “I’m very sure I don’t care,” he whispered, the moisture of his lips warm on her skin.

  A little moan escaped her mouth. She pulled away before they forgot things they couldn’t forget. With a reluctant nod, Lucca joined her in standing up and brushing the straw away.

  Cansu walked in, his face grim. “The black tent, Kyros. I saw it.”

  Seren touched the wool at her sash. “It’s nothing we didn’t already know.” The rest of the group gathered in the ruined stables. She fought to keep her voice loud enough for them to hear. She wanted to go back to the straw and Lucca and be ignorant of all this, but of course she could never—would never—do such a thing.

  “We knew if we lost this war, we’d all be killed. Don’t let scare tactics throw your focus. We have our plan. Launch the weapons over the walls. Bring their numbers down so we can strike and have a chance to come out victorious.”

  “What about wind?” the engineer said through the interpreter. Both men’s faces were s
treaked with dirt and sweat.

  “We can’t worry about it,” Seren said. “We don’t have the time to wait for a perfect moment.” The loss of Fig tugged at her like the little mare was still here, nuzzling and giving Seren strength. She wished she could feel something of Ona, despite what she’d done. “Are the weapons prepared?”

  “Kyros Seren.” Her chest seized at the sound of Adem’s voice.

  Hossam had him by the arm in a flash. Lucca slipped to come up behind him, faster than Seren thought a man could move. Adem’s color was high, but he didn’t fight Lucca or Hossam’s hold on him. He had blood all down the front of his jerkin, black smears on red leather. A blade had sheared a spot so deeply that Seren could see his brown mourning shirt underneath. Blood crusted one long earlobe, but his earth-hued headtie, another tribute to Meric, remained firmly in place across his forehead.

  Seren stepped past Cansu, Meekra, Barir, and the engineer. The clay pots lined up like soldiers along the stables. Their silk inflatables lay like long cloaks behind them. They couldn’t hide this. Adem would know exactly what they were doing. But he didn’t have any warriors with him, none of his usual retinue.

  “General.” Seren kept her face clear. It was better to let him give some information before he took anything more from her.

  He raised a palm and bent low, so low that his knee rasped the ground before he stood again. “Please forgive me. Take me into your confidence. And even if you won’t, know that I will no longer support the high general. I accept your decision either way.”

  “What changed your mind? You were ready to watch me die.”

  “I must speak bluntly if this is to work,” Adem said.

  Lucca unsheathed his sword an inch, but Seren held up a hand to hold him back.

  “Please do.” She clasped her hands and tried to be calm, still, confident.

  “I still believe you’re a criminal. What you did, hiding Kyros Meric’s death, giving orders and telling me, telling us all, they were from him…” His lip curled. “It disgusts me. You dishonored the true kyros, the true royal blood.”