by Jean Johnson
The warriors had not been able to get beneath the balcony because of yet more unseen shields. Those forces rippled as he stepped through, shimmering like a heat wave for a moment. Tall enough to tower head and shoulders over most of the men and women gathered for this battle, he strode up to the first of the warriors. The man clenched his bronze sword and breathed hard, clearly gearing himself up for an attack.
“I suggest you run back home,” Ban stated blandly.
“Rrraaaugh!” the warrior screamed, and swung hard for the man’s neck. Fast as a blink, Ban threw up his hand, his lean arm muscles bulging into whipcord strength. The sword clanged against his wrist, in utter contrariness to how brown-skinned flesh should behave when struck by the polished bronze blade. No, not just flesh alone, the scout leader realized: a faint shimmer of magic decorated the tall man’s forearms from wrists to elbows.
Ban gave him just two fast beats from Kuruk’s heart before counterstriking with his other hand. One moment, his arm was at his side; the next, his fingers were pulling back from the warrior, his skin stained with blood. Gagging, the warrior dropped. The man twisted as he fell, giving Kuruk a glimpse of wide, frightened eyes and a ragged hole that had somehow been ripped through his throat.
“Anyone else wish to attack?” Ban asked lightly, stepping over the choking, bleeding, dying man.
With matching roars and shouts, several more thrust and swung at him. Most were deflected as the man twisted and moved faster than a fighting cobra, but not all. Kuruk flinched at the sight of a long bronze blade jerking through the leather covering his back, the spear having been thrust through his lungs from the front. Only his forearms had been protected by magic, not his chest.
“I got him—I got him!” the spear wielder shouted, grinning in joy. The others pulled back a little, acknowledging the killing blow.
“You should not have done that,” Djin-taje told him from her perch above the action. Kuruk watched the tall man flex his shoulders as she spoke. “You will only annoy him by doing things like that.”
One drawing-covered arm smacked down, breaking the wooden shaft. Grabbing the stump, Ban pulled the blade out of his chest. The others quickly stepped back, shocked and wary that the tall man had not yet fallen over.
Flinging the broken spearhead at its wielder, Ban didn’t pay attention to the impaled, choking man. Instead, he . . . stripped off his vest? Kuruk stared in disbelief, then gaped at the wound. Though blood had spilled, the wound itself was sealing rapidly, unnerving the scout leader beyond words. He clung to the sapling, watching the stranger turning his garment around so that he could examine the holes. The wound sealed fully, and the blood vanished like it was either evaporating, or being absorbed back into his skin.
“I liked this vest,” Ban stated, turning it to examine the other hole while the humans around him pressed back, wide-eyed and wary. “Trousers are annoying, if necessary for travel . . . but I liked this vest. I will not put up with it being damaged again. If you really want me to fight you, then I must insist on changing into my war clothes. Sartorlagen!”
Kuruk flinched at the sharp-spoken word. The black vest and black trousers vanished, replaced in a flash of light by the black folds of a cloth kilt. The pleats were different from the straighter, ribbonlike lengths of wool and leather Kuruk was used to wearing, and he had no idea how the man had managed the change in less than an eyeblink, but there he stood, in boots, kilt, and nothing else but a scrap of leather holding his long, dark hair in a braid.
“Enough of this nonsense! Tajet, attack!” Redra ordered, and charged. Lesser warriors hastily moved out of her way, opening up a widening corridor between the various tribal leaders and the tall man named Death. Most of the dozen tajet raced in after her, including Barrek. Kicking up the broken shaft of the spear that had impaled him, Ban whirled and smacked it into the warrior woman.
Hearing her ribs crack, Kuruk flinched. She screamed in pain, and the painted warrior jabbed the broken end of his weapon into her abdomen, just below her ribs. Wheezing, unable to fully breathe, she dropped her clubs and clutched at the spear shaft. Ban stooped to grab her clubs—and Charag charged in from the side, war axe swinging high. It bit down into the man’s arm and neck, severing them. The drawing-painted body collapsed, the arm flopped, and the head rolled a few feet, blood gushing onto the granite stones lining the ground in front of the curved pillars and their balcony.
For a moment, the scout leader was proud of his fellow warrior, but in the silence, a dry-voiced warning floated over their heads.
“And you really should not have done that.”
Something in her voice made Kuruk shiver in dread.
Barrek scooped up the dead man’s head by its braid, making it dance wildly, splattering blood from the severed neck. “You do not rule here! We do! As soon as we get past your anima, we will do to you what we have done to—what . . . ?”
The head vanished from his grip midword, midswing. Ban’s body stood up, head reattached, arm reattached, blood completely gone from the ground. He carried only the one club now, and he whirled and slammed the spiked club into Barrek’s arm, ripping off chunks of muscles. Ban kept spinning, far enough to slam his empty hand into the Circle Fire leader’s stomach like he had slammed the broken spear shaft into the now-dying Redra’s.
A second, harder thrust of his arm angled it upward. Up inside Taje Barrek’s chest. The leader blinked in shock, his lips parted in pain, but only blood bubbled out. A hard jerk extracted the taller man’s arm. His fingers were clenched around something reddish and lumpy. It twitched rhythmically, bleeding in spurts. Horrified, Kuruk realized the lump was his leader’s dying heart.
“You do not threaten Djin-taje,” Ban—no, Death—growled, his tone harsh. Angry. Turning his painted face, he eyed the pale-faced Charag for a long moment, then flung the dripping organ at the big man.
The heart bounced off his shoulder and flopped. Shrieking, Charag turned and ran. He wasn’t the only one to try to escape; a few broke and turned tail as well. They pushed at the stunned crowd to get out of their way, but the others didn’t move. They stared in awe, in horror, but were not yet a target. Death spun and flung the spiked club at Charag. It thocked into his head and spine, dropping the warrior-scout to the stone-paved ground. Death turned back to face the others, raised his bloodied hand, and pointed at some of the warriors who had attacked him.
“You struck me . . . and you struck me . . .”
Someone else threw something at the painted man. Death raised his hand to stop it, and it burst on contact. A goat’s bladder, filled with oil. Its wielder flung a torch as well, shouting, “He can’t kill us if he’s nothing but ashes! Fire can stop all healing magics!”
A burning brand flipped through the air, aimed at the painted man’s head. Death caught the burning torch. He turned, looking up at the balcony. The pungent smell of earth oil wafted over the valley, which explained its dark color. Kuruk could not see his face, but he could read the flex and sag of his muscles and could guess the tall man’s expression was asking the question, Are they really this stupid?
“Ban-taje cannot be killed.” Djin-taje’s words checked the warriors before they could charge or perhaps flee. “Even my people, the Fae, have been unable to find a way. For his own reasons, he listens to me. This makes me the only being who can stop him, if I choose to do so. I suggest you apologize and leave. I will instruct Ban to let you leave, if you choose wisdom and apology over violence and stupidity.”
Kuruk heard a scream and dragged his gaze back down in time to see two figures on fire. Death had stalked up to one of the men who had struck him in the initial fight, and now held him close with one arm. The unlucky warrior had either bumped into or deliberately shoved the torch against his opponent’s head, but where his own skin blackened and crisped, bringing the scents of singed wool, seared leather, and charring flesh, Ban’s body burned with no visible eff
ects other than a bit of oily smoke curling off his limbs.
His other arm grabbed the bronze blade of the next man and wrenched it free. Swallowing, Kuruk watched the warrior turn to flee, only to have Death fling the long dagger into his back. The man caught against Death’s chest no longer struggled. Ban-taje released him and stepped over the corpse, the flames licking at his boots without doing any harm; his own fires were slowly dying down as the last of the earth oil burned out. Parts of his kilt smoldered but had not actually burned; a not-as-frightened corner of the scout leader’s mind guessed that it was made from some sort of finely spun wool, to react like that.
“Anyone else?” Ban-taje asked. He focused on a trembling youth clutching an axe. “Didn’t you strike me when the spear pierced my lungs?”
“I—I’m sorry!” After throwing his weapon at the ground, the warrior turned and ran before it even clanged on the stones underfoot, shoving his way through the gaping crowd. As if his flight was a signal, others turned and ran. First a handful, then by the dozens, then most of the crowd—warriors, tajet, and animadjet alike.
A few remained, frozen in place. Kuruk was one of them. Ban-taje turned in a slow circle, pacing around until he came face to face with the scout leader. Feeling warm wetness trickling down his thighs, Kuruk dropped to his knees on the edge of the garden box, his left hand still gripping the sapling, forcing it to bend.
“P-Please.” He didn’t know what he was pleading for, but there it was. “Please don’t . . .”
Death took another step closer, his brown eyes remarkably calm considering the blood on his hands and the bodies in his wake. Along with the stench of blood came burnt flesh and charred wool. “Djin-taje-ul says I must not attack first. This time. If you do not attack, I will leave you alone.” Those eyes dropped to his chest, to the red lines painted on Kuruk’s vest. He turned, eyed the slumped bodies, and lifted his chin. “One of those was your leader. We have no use for his corpse. Take his body, and go back to your people.”
Afraid that if he did not obey it would anger the man, Kuruk released the sapling and climbed down clumsily. He skirted around Death, heart beating fast in his chest, until he could grab Barrek’s legs. The dead leader was larger and more muscular than Kuruk, a heavy, awkward weight to drag, but Kuruk did not stop hauling on it.
Death had spoken and given him a reprieve. He would take the body of his former leader and would never, ever return to this place. Every awkward step of the way, Kuruk prayed that these anima-beings, these gods in the southern tongue, would stay content in their little valley. That they would stay far, far away from the Circle Fire Tribe.
***
Year 17, Month 5, Day 28
“They’re back to calling it a mere gift again,” Halek murmured, watching the trade party from the Circle Fire Tribe setting up their tents in the valley before the theater.
He was getting old, the kind of old that Djin-taje-ul’s magics could not cure, and it was simply easier to sit on the upper balcony of the long-restored gathering hall to watch the visitors who came and went. He had retired from being the taje of the humans, but still liked to keep an eye on everything. Those gifts had been given earlier, and now the trade goods were being set out for the Flame Sea Tribe to admire. There weren’t many other visitors at this time of year, so the Circle Fire traders had drawn a lot of interest.
Halek gestured at the caravan. “They call it a gift, but it’s still a tribute from a defeated tribe to a victorious one. It’s still intended to placate us.”
“What makes you think that?” Ban asked. He, too, relaxed in the shade of the upper balcony. Where Halek’s dark, gray-streaked hair had turned thickly gray over the years, that thin beard long since turned white, the painted man’s own long locks were still solid black, his face smooth-shaven and unlined by the passage of time. He sat on one side of a long table, the same side as the former taje.
“Yesterday was cooler than the day before. So is today,” Halek observed. “We are now in the season of fading summer, when the water supplies are low. The chance of being caught in a flash flood on the return trip is high. They are therefore desperate for a blessing from associating peacefully with us, especially after last year’s attempted attack by the Green Teeth Tribe.”
On the other side of the table, Djin-taje-ul frowned in annoyance. She placed one of her tiles among the others already laid in neat, touching rows and drew a replacement from the messy, unconnected pile set to one side. “We are not gods. We can no more change their fates, for good or for ill, than they can.”
“I think most of us understand that, Taje,” Halek told her, watching Ban select and place a tile. “Especially after you tripped and broke your arm two years ago.” That earned him another annoyed scowl, but he merely smiled. “Seeing the Mother-Healer in need of healing herself makes you more human in our eyes, and less Fae.”
“Save that feeling for the half-born children,” Djin-taje warned him. “I still have to make my report on their progress in a few years. It will determine whether we stay or go.”
Halek drew a spare tile without comment. He had learned in bits and pieces that the Fae were very much like the Circle Fire members in the valley below, at least in one aspect: they had come here originally to trade. In crafted goods, in grown foods, and in information, but just simply to trade. They would have established a hidden home in these rocks and would have gone to the other tribes to do their trading if Halek hadn’t heeded Zudu’s advice on finding a new place to settle and live.
Taje Djin-taje-ul was not the leader of all Fae, just those who were here. The others, the rest of their kind, lived “elsewhere, in a place far, far away,” as she put it. Hidden beings listened to her reports on all the information gathered, most of which was gathered by Ban, who rarely stayed in one place long. It was a good thing, really; even Halek, who knew the tall, painted warrior could be as gentle as a mother with a newborn, often felt more comfortable when Death roamed far away.
Her turn having come around again, Djin-taje moved a pip-covered tile into place, aligning one of its two sets of pips with another set, then drew a new one to replace the spent tile. This game, “dominoes,” was something Ban had taught her. Something Halek enjoyed playing. He eyed her placement and added one of his own, then lifted his chin at her. “How fares the new one?”
She grunted and patted her rounded stomach. “Eager to be born. I still don’t know why we’re so attracted to your kind, nor so fertile when we interbreed. Still, there seems little harm in the results. They look and act like blond-haired, beige-eyed humans, so we may be permitted to stay beyond the twenty-year mark. And then the forty-year mark. We are a patient race.”
“They do have a strong affinity for the anima,” Ban warned her. “I caught Luti whistling up a water spring the other day.”
“You did?” Halek asked, brows raising. “Literally whistling?”
He nodded. Just the once, his every move precise and conservative. As was the neat way he lifted one of the fajenz tiles into place—his last tile, technically, though there were still a few left in the drawing pile, forcing him to take one more. “I told her to put the water back when she was done.”
Halek placed one of his three tiles and drew a replacement.
“Did she manage it?” Djin-taje asked. She drew an extra tile, since she didn’t seem to have one she could place. That left her with five in front of her, three in front of Halek, and just the one in front of Ban. This was an easy-enough game to play; it engaged the mind lightly while allowing enough of the rest of the mind to have the room to think of things to ask and say.
“No. Almost, but not quite. I cannot see water and stone the way Parren and Kaife can, but I am still able to use magic in this realm. I put the aquifer back where it belongs and lectured her about carrying a waterskin instead of casually disrupting Parren-taje’s waterworks.”
Halek nodded, considering
his own tiles. The Fae were now considered leaders in their individual areas of expertise. Parren for water, Adan for metalsmithing, Fali for hunting, Rua for gardening, so on and so forth. He supposed Ban was their default war leader, but the tall man spent far more time traveling and studying than fighting. At least, one presumed. The aging ex-leader wasn’t sure anymore what the man did, aside from go away and come back periodically with news of other tribes and samples of plants, rocks, and so forth.
“Did Taje Kuruk send a message with his gifts this time?” Ban asked. He placed his tile and drew the second-to-last one of the lot. The game was almost over.
“Yes,” Halek told him. He placed a tile and drew the last one from the pile. Ban had not been here when the gifts had arrived, and Djin-taje had been too interested in playing a nice, relaxing game with two men to discuss intertribal politics before now. “He seems to have mellowed in some of his fear and awe—his message stated it was a gift from one leader to another, not a war tribute, as I said.”
Djin-taje placed one of her tiles. “Well, I may be losing this game, but I think we’re finally winning that one. Only the foolish try attacking us, and those grow fewer in number every year. Green Teeth’s attempt at poisoning our water supply was good, but fruitless. I thank you again for the advice on letting the other tribes punish them for their attempt, Halek.”
“In the desert, any man who poisons the water for one poisons the water for all and must be stopped,” the aging ex-leader dismissed. “They got a far worse fate at the hands of the others. Unleashing Ban-taje would have made the pain short in length but would have left no room for them to rethink their ways.”