Akiri: Sands Of Darkness

by Brian D. Anderson

  Akiri

  Sands Of Darkness

  Brian D. Anderson & Steven Savile

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Published Longfire Press, May 2017

  Cover Illustration Gene Mollica Studios

  Copyright © 2017 Brian D. Anderson & Steven Savile

  Dedication

  Brian- For all of those who to allow their imagination to take their lives to unexpected and wondrous new heights. For you, magic is real and every day is an adventure. Where others see the mundane, you see the fantastical. Your spirit is why I keep writing.

  Steven- For Jonathan Davis : The man who gave Akiri a true voice.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Prologue

  Panic gripped Romi as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the half-moon filtering in through the sheer curtains. She was gone!

  “Lyndora!” he shouted at the top of his voice. There was no need for stealth. Not any longer.

  Racing from the bedchamber, he ran down the hall to where his two sons were sleeping. He pushed the door open and peered inside. It was just as he feared.

  Three rapid paces took him over to where his younger son was sleeping. He shook the boy awake. “Kalmar. Where is your brother?”

  After cracking open his eyes, the youngster took a moment to unscramble his sleepy brain. “With Mother,” he said.

  Romi's grip tightened. “Where has she taken him?”

  Kalmar winced. “I don’t know, Father. I swear. I just remember waking up and seeing Mother taking Vareem out of bed.”

  Romi loosened his hold and forced calm into his voice. “Try, son. It’s very important.”

  Despite his father’s efforts, he still looked afraid. “I…I…I’m sorry.” Tears were spilling down his plump cheeks. “Is Vareem in trouble?”

  “No, son.” He brushed back Kalmar’s hair. “Vareem is not in trouble. Go back to sleep.”

  The boy lay back onto his pillow, doing his best to wipe away the tears. As Romi moved toward the door, Kalmar called after him.

  “Father, I think there was someone waiting outside the room when Mother came. I heard a voice.”

  These words stabbed at Romi's heart, though he managed to keep his emotions in check. “Put it out of your mind and go back to sleep,” he told the boy.

  He could see the tiny, guilt-ridden face looking to him for comfort, but he had none to offer. Not at this moment. He closed the door softly and hurried back to his room. While throwing on a leather jerkin and pants, he went over in his mind the possible routes Lyndora might take. She would want to avoid prying eyes, but at the same time to move swiftly. To achieve the latter, she would need to use at the very least a well-beaten path. And traveling with naught but moonlight to show the way would slow her down more still.

  His sword was hanging on a nail at the back of the wardrobe. It had been many years since its steel had tasted blood, and the weapon felt heavy in his hands as he attached it to his belt. Exactly how many had fallen to its edge he had no idea. What he remembered clearly was the oath he had sworn on the day he put the sword away, promising himself that he had wielded it – or any other weapon – for the last time. The wars were over, and he had paid his debt to the Rahaji, but there was now a new war on the horizon. One that until now, he had tried his best to ignore; but this was a conflict that would set fire to the entire world.

  Once dressed, he made his way to the servants’ quarters. Marta was already awake and turning up the lantern. The two other women who shared the room with her had not stirred.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?” she whispered.

  Marta had been with his family her entire life, as had her mother before her. He trusted no one more. Romi waved for her to follow him outside. Smoothing back her graying hair, she quickly snatched up a robe that was folded neatly on her nightstand.

  Once in the hall, Romi waited until the door was closed and they had walked a few paces further down before speaking. “She has taken him,” he said.

  Marta’s reaction was immediate. Her face contorted and her eyes burned. “I knew it. I knew she was lying. Do you know where they have gone?”

  “I suspect they are heading to the Valley of the Gods, but I need to know the route they intend to take. I can catch them if I leave now.”

  Marta thought for a moment. Her knowledge of the surrounding country was better than that of even the most skilled tracker. “She would go north, through the sands of Garduun,” she said confidently. “That’s the only way they could hope to stay ahead of you.”

  They hurried along to the western wing of the manor. His home was not as palatial and expensively decorated as those belonging to other nobles of his status, but it was well fortified and almost impregnable to anything short of an army. The manor had originally been built by his great-grandfather to keep local rivals from growing bold during a time of severe conflict and political infighting among the six great noble families.

  The sound of giggling drifted from inside the room of Captain Bullo Plebus, telling Romi that the captain was entertaining guests. However, this was no time for courtesy, and he entered the room without knocking. The immediate flailing of sheets and startled female cries of alarm confirmed that two of the beds in the next room along from Marta’s would currently be empty.

  Bullo was a powerful man from a land across the desert where the trees were dense and the ground was covered in snow each year. He had been captain of his house guard for six years and had proven himself to be trustworthy and honest – qualities Romi rarely found in foreigners.

  Reacting instantly to the intrusion, Bullo had already reached for a vicious-looking dagger from his bedside table. Upon seeing his lord, he tossed it aside. Unlike the two young beauties in his bed, who were both desperately trying to mask their faces behind the bedsheets, he leapt up stark naked.

  “Is something the matter, my lord?” he asked, sounding just a touch out of breath.

  Romi flicked an impatient hand. “Get rid of the maids first.”

  Bullo gave the bedsheets a sharp tug, exposing his equally naked guests. “Out!” he ordered, giving a loud clap of his hands.

  Both girls hurried from the room, pausing only to snatch up their clothing on the way.

  “My wife has kidnapped Vareem,” Romi said, as soon as they had gone. He retrieved a key from his pocket. “This will unlock the chest in my treasury. Inside you will find a document bearing the seal of my house. If I should not return, take it directly to the magistrate in Jerika. He will know what to do with it.”

  Bullo was already picking up his uniform that was piled beside the bed. “If you
intend to find your son, I will go with you.”

  “No. You must stay here. You are the only man I can trust to watch over Kalmar. Should I fail, you will keep my holdings in trust for him until he comes of age.”

  “And what shall I do, my lord?” asked Marta.

  Romi held up a hand to silence her. “If I have not returned in two weeks, it means I will not be returning at all.”

  “Which direction has she taken?” asked Bullo.

  “I will be taking the east road from Jerika.”

  Marta cocked her head. “But my lord…”

  “While I am away, Bullo, you are to question Marta as to who else in the household staff and guards are in league with my wife and her masters.”

  Marta’s mouth opened in shock. “What? Surely you can’t believe—”

  Romi let his hand fly, sending the old servant to the floor with a backhand to her jaw. “Silence, woman! I have already confronted Lord Zanahar. He confessed all to the Rahaji, naming you as a member of that cursed band of demons.”

  “It’s all lies, my lord,” she insisted, blood pouring from her mouth. “I would never betray you.”

  He sneered with contempt. “I would have thought the same. That was, until I heard it confirmed from your son’s own lips.” He glared down at her. “Oh, yes, before it slips my mind. He wanted me to tell you that he no longer follows your masters. He has seen through their evil deceits.”

  Gradually, Marta’s expression turned from one of fear to a mask of utter hatred and fury. “That boy always was a disappointment to me. But your son is different. We have high hopes for him. High hopes indeed.”

  It took all of Romi’s discipline to stop himself from drawing his blade and running her through on the spot, but he needed her to talk. “Question her,” he ordered Bullo. “Use whatever methods you deem necessary to find out who in my house is a devotee.”

  “Should I kill any that I uncover, my lord?”

  “No. Take them to the Rahaji. He must determine their guilt.”

  Bullo hurriedly donned his pants and shirt. As he pulled on his boots, he looked over at the still defiant Marta. “We are going to have fun tonight, you and I.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing, heathen dog. My master gives me strength.”

  He gave her a sinister smile while approaching. “Brave words indeed. But I have seen bravery many times before. You would be surprised how quickly courage fades when the pain starts.” Kneeling, he grabbed hold of her chin. “Perhaps you’re different. Perhaps you possess some unknown power that the hundreds of others I have watched die lacked.”

  “They were all heathens…just like you.” She spat directly into his face.

  Bullo wiped away the spittle and laughed. “That they were.” He glanced up at Romi. “I will handle this one personally, my lord. She’ll reveal the names of her confederates soon enough.”

  “Good. Then I can delay no longer.”

  Just as he was leaving the room, Bullo called after him. “I expect to see you return, My Lord, with Lord Vareem at your side.”

  Romi hoped he had read the situation correctly. Marta had been adamant that he should not take the road through Jerika, even though it was by far the swiftest route and the least traveled. It led directly to the Valley of the Gods – long abandoned as a center of worship and only rarely visited by the curious. Even bandits and smugglers seldom ventured there for fear they would offend the gods and incur their wrath. It was a perfect place to hide.

  But not for much longer. The Cult of Hajazar would not be allowed to rise again. Now that the Rahaji had been made aware of the situation, he would crush them; but it would take time for him to assemble a force, and the Valley of the Gods was days of hard travel away from the royal palace. Word of their coming would surely reach his son’s abductors in time for them to melt away into the wastes long before the Rahaji’s force arrived. That, he would not risk. He had to act now.

  Every second spent saddling his horse and gathering together what he thought he might need for the journey seemed like an hour. But he had to be prepared. It would do his son no good if he were to die of thirst or freeze to death in the bitter winds of the desert storms common this time of year.

  The ride to Jerika would take him three days, then two more to the Valley. He hoped to catch them before they arrived. He sniffed the air. It would be a calm night.

  After mounting his horse, he whispered into her ear, “I need you, Jala. Don’t fail me.”

  The mare bobbed her head and flexed her muscles with eager anticipation. Then, with only a click of his tongue as a spur, she exploded into a blinding run.

  The rush of the wind in his ears would normally have sent him into a state of delight. There were few things he loved more than riding Jala at full gallop. Now, though, even her great speed seemed sluggish when he thought about how far ahead Lyndora might be. Worse still, what if he were wrong and she had taken another route? These thoughts weighed so heavily on his mind that he failed to notice the movement behind a pile of withered palm fronds ahead.

  The arrow thudded into his left shoulder, and the combination of surprise and force almost dislodged him from the saddle completely. Jala slid to a halt and reared wildly as three men in black robes leapt into their path. Pulling hard on the reins, he yanked his mount to the right. Pure instinct took over: even though he was injured, and it had been years since his last battle, Romi would show them he was not an opponent to be taken lightly. Pushing himself up from the saddle, he vaulted backwards over the rear of his mount, drawing his blade as he made contact with the ground. Though landing relatively lightly on the balls of his feet, a sharp pain from the impact ran through his injured arm and shoulder.

  With calculated steps, he moved toward the two attackers to his left. The gleam of bared teeth was all he could see of their soot-covered faces. Ducking low, he clicked his tongue twice, and Jala kicked high with her rear legs, her flying hooves crushing the skull of the man immediately behind her. His body slammed into the second assassin and sent him sprawling. Romi was on him in a flash, bringing the tip of his blade down hard and through the stunned man’s throat.

  Even though the odds had been evened out, the final opponent was not deterred. Romi barely had time to spin around and extend his blade defensively before he was under attack. The curved saber this assassin wielded was far heavier and more difficult to manage than his own. It also became apparent after only a few clumsy swings that the man, though undoubtedly fierce and a vicious killer, was not an experienced warrior.

  The assassin lurched forward again, this time stumbling over the bodies of his fallen comrades. Romi could have ended it right there, but he waited. As expected, his opponent’s sword arm soon began to tire, swinging ever more slowly with undisciplined attacks. Romi easily side-stepped each strike until he saw the opening he wanted. With speed and precision, he brought his sword down in a tight arc, lopping off his enemy’s hand at the wrist.

  The man howled in agony and clutched desperately at his wound with his good hand to try to staunch the gushing flow of blood. Romi merely planted his boot into the man’s chest, sending him crashing hard down. After sheathing his sword, he retrieved a bandage from his saddlebag. It wouldn’t do for this man to die. Not just yet.

  The assassin was now rolling around, still screaming while desperately trying to squeeze off the bleeding. Romi pressed his knee to the man’s neck and tied a tourniquet to staunch the flow before wrapping the wound. “Unless you want your life to end here and now, you had better tell me what I want to know,” he growled.

  The man let out a feral snarl. “You'll get nothing from me, dog.” With surprising speed, his uninjured hand flew to his mouth and put something inside.

  Romi tried to force open his jaws, but they were clamped tightly shut. When he saw the man swallow, he knew it was too late. After only a few seconds, the assassin began convulsing violently as foam poured from his mouth and blood seeped from his nose and eyes. Romi spat and cursed in
frustration. Damned fanatics! They gave their lives for those who cared nothing for them.

  Blood was now soaking his own shirt. He needed to treat his wound soon; otherwise this would all have been for nothing. Gripping the arrow still protruding from his shoulder, he clenched his jaw and snapped the shaft in two. A fresh wave of pain threatened to bring him to his knees, but after a few moments it passed sufficiently for him to continue.

  The head of the arrow was sticking out far enough at the rear for him to reach around and grab it securely. Quickly was the only way to do this, he told himself. After taking several deep breaths, he released an adrenaline-fueled roar and pulled the shaft as hard as he could. It came about three-quarters of the way free. Without allowing himself time to think about the consequences, he gave another roar and a second pull. This time the broken arrow slid free completely.

  Sucking his teeth against the increasing agony, he retrieved a tiny metal box from his saddlebag. The sickly-sweet odor of mantas root made his lip curl, but better that than bleeding to death. Scooping out a portion of the odorous concoction with his middle and index fingers, he applied it liberally to both the front and back of the wound and then bound it tight.

  He mounted Jala once again, knowing that his wound would soon stiffen, though thankfully it wasn’t his sword arm. Far more of a concern was the knowledge that, if not properly treated, it would putrefy. He looked down at the bodies of his would-be killers. They might have accomplished their mission after all.

  He pushed his mount as hard as he could toward Jerika. Most horses would have collapsed under such demands. But not Jala. It was as if his own urgency were sufficient to drive her even harder. Even so, he had still not yet caught so much as a glimpse of his quarry. Fear gripped his heart as he considered the possibility they had not used the road after all and that he had ridden straight by them. However, after inquiring with the city guard, he was relieved to hear that they had been spotted the previous day heading toward the east road in the company of four armed men, who at the time they assumed were his house guards.