The Cerulean Storm

by Denning, Troy

  “And our destination,” Sadira said. “The wraiths knew enough about our plans to say that they had summoned his spirit from Samarah. I’m afraid Borys may already have killed Tithian and recovered the Dark Lens.”

  “The Dragon may know where we’re going, but he doesn’t have the Dark Lens,” said Rikus. “If he did, he wouldn’t bother sending assassins after us. He’d just attack us himself and get it over with.”

  “But if he knows our destination, how could he not have the Lens?” asked Caelum.

  “Our message said to meet in Samarah, but it didn’t say that the Lens was there now,” said Neeva. “Maybe Tithian is waiting someplace else.”

  “He’s certainly cunning enough,” said Rikus. “We don’t have any choice except to go and see. If we wait here, the Dragon will only try to stop us again.”

  Neeva nodded. “The battle has started. If we’re to win, we need the Dark Lens—even if Tithian is the one who sent for us.” The warrior faced her militia and pointed toward the razed farm behind Rasda’s Wall. “Go fill your waterskins,” she ordered. “We’ve a long march to Samarah.”

  NINE

  ABALACH-RE

  THE CARGO KANK SCRATCHED AT THE WHITE-CRUSTED ground with all six claws, protesting Sadira’s command to halt. She did not begrudge the beast its impatience. The poor creature had not had water in more than five days, since the legion had started across the glaring salt flats of the Ivory Plain. Now, with the pollen of blade blossom, yellow fan, and other oasis flowers loading its bristly antennae, the insect could probably taste the water it had been denied for so long. The sorceress counted herself lucky that it obeyed at all.

  Sadira had stopped two hundred paces from a ring-shaped knoll covered with slender saedra trees. The long-needled conifers grew with upraised boughs that resembled the arms of a sun-worshiping dwarf. Purple-flowered vines with long, yellow thorns grew twined around the boles, and beards of moss dangled from the branches.

  On the hilltop ahead, two ranks of enemy warriors had formed a battle line among the trees. Most wore green tabards over yellow hemp kilts. In their hands they held square wooden shields and long throwing spears. Obsidian-spiked flails hung at their belts. Unarmed officers wearing light blue turbans stood along the line, interspersed at regular intervals.

  “There must be two thousand of them,” Rikus observed, coming up behind her. Like Sadira, he led a cargo kank, and he carried young Rkard on his shoulders. “This worries me.”

  Sadira nodded, and the mul walked to within two paces of her before stopping. This was as close as they had come during the last ten days, for the sorceress could not quite bring herself to forgive Rikus. When she had told him about Agis’s death, the mul’s first response had not been sorrow or even sympathy. He had wanted to know how they would manage without the noble. Sadira could not even bring herself to imagine life without Agis, and she had let her husband die without the thing he most desired, an heir to carry on the Asticles name. How could Rikus expect her to think about their future at a time like that?

  Caelum stepped forward, placing himself between Rikus and Sadira. “That’s no raiding tribe,” the dwarf said. He reached up and took his son off Rikus’s shoulders. “It looks more like a legion.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said Magnus. “A Raamin legion. When I was with the Sun Runners, we had to flee the city’s soldiers many times.”

  “But we’re a good fifteen-day march south of Raam, with Gulg and Nibenay in between,” protested Sult Ltak. After the fight against the giants, Neeva had distributed the survivors of the Granite Company among the rest of Kled’s militia and had asked Sult to stay near her for special assignments. “What are Raamins doing here?”

  “Borys sent them,” Rikus concluded. “I’ll bet he’s made the sorcerer-kings spread their armies all over the desert looking for us.”

  “Whoever sent them, they’re between us and water,” said Neeva, also joining the group. “We’ll have to hope our warriors are strong enough to drive them out.”

  Sadira looked back to inspect the legion. The three Kledan companies led the column, standing five abreast in thirty disciplined rows. The dwarves had removed their heavy armor and had strapped it across their backs to keep from being baked alive in the midday sun. Even this concession to the scorching heat had not saved them entirely, for they had flushed faces and glazed eyes.

  The Tyrian humans looked even worse. They stood in a double column behind the dwarves, breathing in short, rapid gasps and leaning on each other for support. Those who owned armor had tied it into bundles and had dragged it along behind them, while many others had tried to shade themselves from the sun by stretching scraps of cloth over their heads. A few warriors were shifting from one leg to the other in a futile attempt to keep the hot ground from scorching their feet through the thin leather of their sandals. Most seemed too lethargic for such efforts, simply bracing themselves on their weapons and clenching their teeth against the pain of standing in one place.

  Sadira saw a small group of stragglers coming up behind the legion, but beyond them nothing rose above the surface of the salt flat: not a boulder, not a single barren stem of spike-brush, not even the whirling wisps of a wind spout. The plain stretched clear to the horizon, glaring white, utterly level. As the legion had crossed that blistering, blinding expanse, the scouts had not found a single trace of animal dung, had not seen so much as a beetle scuttling across the sparkling ground, had not heard the call of even one gluttonous kes’trekel waiting for them to die. There had been nothing, no sign of any other living creature.

  Sadira faced Rikus and Neeva. “Should we fight now or rest for a while?”

  The sorceress did not worry that their foes would attack first. No commander would leave a defensive position on a hillside to advance across the open salt flat, especially when he had water and the enemy did not. If they wished, Sadira knew, they could even make camp in the full confidence that the Raamins would wait for them to make the initial assault.

  After considering the sorceress’s question, Neeva said, “Resting won’t do us any good. The more time we spend in the sun, the thirstier our warriors will be when the fight starts.”

  Rikus nodded his agreement, then turned to face the legion. Before he could say anything, Rkard grabbed his hand. “Rikus, the Scourge!”

  The boy pointed at Rikus’s scabbard, a cylinder of bleached bone intricately carved with the mul’s life story. Tyr’s freedmen had presented it to him in gratitude for throwing the first spear against Kalak.

  The mul frowned. “What of it?”

  Rkard lifted the scabbard. The tip of the cylinder had cracked open, and a short length of the Scourge’s broken point was protruding through the hole.

  “That’s strange.” Rikus took the scabbard. “But thanks for noticing, Rkard. Broken or not, I’d hate to lose the tip of my sword.”

  The mul pulled his sword out of the scabbard, then gasped in astonishment. The broken blade no longer ended in a jagged barb. Instead, it curved to a sharp point at about two-thirds its original length.

  “What’s happened?” Rikus gasped.

  “It’s growing back!” Rkard concluded.

  Rikus shook his head. “Steel doesn’t grow.”

  “Enchanted steel might,” said Sadira. She pointed at the old tip, still protruding from the scabbard. “And that would explain why the broken piece is being pushed out of the scabbard.”

  The mul rubbed his cheek and studied his revitalized blade. Finally, he shrugged. “What do I know?” he asked. “I’m just glad to have it returning to normal.”

  “As are we all,” said Caelum.

  Rikus tipped his scabbard down and let the broken end of the Scourge’s blade slide out. “Since you kept me from losing this, why don’t you take it?” he asked Rkard. “Maybe we can make it into a dagger for you.”

  The boy accepted the gift with a gaping mouth. Even if the blade had not been part of the Scourge, it was steel—and in the met
al-poor world of Athas, that fact alone made it a weapon of considerable value.

  “Rkard, have you forgotten what to say when someone gives you a gift?” asked Neeva.

  The boy blushed. “I’ll cherish it as I cherish your friendship,” he said, bowing to Rikus.

  To Sadira’s surprise, Rikus remembered the proper response. “Let it be a symbol of our trust.”

  Rikus bowed to Rkard then faced the legion. “Tyrians, flank the dwarves, forming a two-rank line!” he yelled. “We must fight before we drink!”

  The warriors quickly spread out to both sides of the dwarves. Most of those who had been dragging armor left it lying on the salty ground. In the scorching heat of the Ivory Plain, few humans were strong enough to carry the extra weight into battle without collapsing from heat exhaustion.

  As the Tyrians scurried into position, Neeva turned to her warriors. “Form assault wedges!” she called. “I’ll lead the Iron Company. Yalmus Ltak will take the Boulder Company. Caelum, hold the Bronze Company in reserve.”

  Unlike the Tyrians, the hardy dwarves did not abandon their armor. Each warrior helped the dwarf to his front unfasten the equipment and put it on. Within a few seconds, the three companies were fully armored in helmets and breastplates. The gleaming steel reflected the sunlight so brightly that Sadira could hardly bear to look at the Kledans.

  “That glare will trouble the Raamins.” Sadira used her dark hand to shield her eyes.

  “Not as much as our axes,” promised Sult, cinching down his breastplate.

  The Iron and Boulder Companies arranged themselves into wedge-shaped formations, with the points aimed at the center of the Raamin lines. The Bronze Company moved twenty paces back and formed a compact square, each man standing straight and motionless in the blistering heat. Sadira was tempted to suggest they use their broad-bladed axes to shade each other, but thought better of it when she remembered that all Kledans venerated the sun.

  “What shall I do?” asked Magnus. “I can’t kill all their templars, but I should be able to take out a few.”

  “You stay here with Caelum and Sadira,” said Rikus.

  “But all those Raamins wearing turbans are templars,” Magnus objected.

  “I know,” Rikus replied. “That’s why I want you and Sadira to stay back. You’ll have a better view and can help where you’re needed most.” The mul looked to Sadira, an unspoken question in his eyes.

  “I understand what you want,” Sadira replied. She knew he was hoping she would say something kind or encouraging, but she could not bring herself to do it. The anger inside was too powerful, perhaps because it was something she did not quite understand. When the mul did not turn away, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be going?”

  Rikus spun on his heel and started toward the oasis. Without saying a word, he lifted the Scourge and waved the legion after him.

  Neeva eyed the sorceress for a moment. “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on him?” she asked. “Rikus isn’t the one who killed Agis.”

  “No, but he’s still glad to have my other husband gone,” Sadira said. “He’s only upset now because I miss Agis more than he thought I would.”

  Neeva closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “Is that what you think?”

  “You can’t tell me I’m wrong,” Sadira countered.

  “I shouldn’t have to.”

  Neeva looked away and waved the Iron and Boulder Companies forward. Before leaving, she looked back to Rkard. “Stay with the Bronze Company—and no heroics this time.”

  The boy frowned, but nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

  Neeva smiled, then stepped into her place at the back corner of the Iron Company.

  With Caelum and Rkard, Sadira watched the warriors of Tyr and Kled advance. Seen from the rear, the joint legion reminded Sadira of an ungainly bird. The gleaming triangles of the dwarves represented the body, feathered with silvery breastplates of steel. The human flanks were its wings, ragged, gangly, and barren of plumage. It was a strange creature, born equally of desperation and hope. The sorceress hoped it would prove both savage enough and smart enough to slay its prey.

  The formation had traveled about a quarter of the distance to the oasis when a mad cackle rang out from the center of the knoll’s summit. Though the voice was female, it sounded more like the bloodthirsty call of a wyvern.

  “Who was that?” asked Sadira.

  Magnus shrugged. “Even the Sun Runners have not run afoul of every official in Raam,” he said. “It could be a high templar—or even the sorcerer-queen herself.”

  Caelum pushed his son toward the Bronze Company. “Take the kanks and hide yourself behind the formation,” he ordered. “And remember what your mother said about heroics.”

  Rkard took Sadira’s switch and tapped the antennae of the two cargo kanks. They clacked their mandibles in frustration but slowly turned to follow the boy toward the Bronze Company.

  “Hiding won’t save you, child.” The words rolled across the salt flat as clear and distinct as the lyrics to one of Magnus’s ballads, though the voice was aloof and cold in a way that the windsinger’s could never be.

  Rkard started to turn around, but Caelum yelled, “Don’t listen to her, Son. Go on!”

  As the young mul slipped behind the ranks of the Bronze Company, Sadira searched the oasis hill for the speaker. At the same time, she raised her hand to her mouth and caught a wisp of her shadowy breath, then faced the yalmus of the Bronze Company.

  “I know you and your warriors prefer sunlight,” she called. “But stay beneath this shield. It’ll protect you from Raamin magic.”

  With that, she uttered her incantation and blew the black shadow toward the reserves. The wisp floated over to the Bronze Company, stretching into a long, dark cord as it moved. It dropped to the ground in front of the yalmus and snaked its way around the formation. When it had formed a complete square enclosing Rkard and the dwarves, a gray pall crept over the entire company.

  The dwarven warriors cast nervous glances into the white sky, muttering and fidgeting. Several even stepped out of line—until their yalmus chased them back into place with a sharp command.

  Again, a cruel laugh rolled across the salt flat. A chorus of Raamin voices cried out in fear, then a small section of the enemy line grasped their chests and dropped to the ground. Sadira studied the slope behind the fallen warriors carefully, looking for the cause of the men’s sudden deaths. She found only half a dozen saedra trees and several clumps of silverfan. There was not even a blue-turbaned templar standing in the vicinity.

  “Did you kill those Raamins?” Magnus asked. Sadira shook her head.

  “Then what—”

  Before Caelum could ask his question, a seething orb of white radiance shot out from the gap in the Raamin lines. It skimmed over the legion’s flank, vaporizing four Tyrian warriors as it passed. Sadira and Magnus barely managed to duck before it blazed over their own heads, a stench like burning tar riding its wake. The ball crashed into the front rank of the Bronze Company and exploded in a blinding flash. The dwarves shouted in anger and alarm, but no one cried out in pain.

  The yalmus ordered his warriors to form their ranks. As the spots cleared from her vision, Sadira saw that her gray pall remained intact and had protected the dwarven ranks from injury. Still, the Bronze Company had fallen into disarray. Most of the dwarves had dropped their axes and were blindly trying to find their weapons again, while many others were simply rubbing their eyes and shaking their heads. Rkard stood in the center of the jumble, his eyes pinched shut and his hands clutching the sword shard Rikus had given him.

  “By the wind!” Magnus gasped. “That leaves no doubt that Abalach-Re is with them.”

  “She is,” Sadira said. “Only a sorcerer-king—or -queen, in this case—could and would call upon the life force of her own soldiers to cast a spell.”

  The sorceress turned around to study the area near the collapsed Raamins. She saw no one standing nearby. The sorcerer-quee
n was using magic to hide herself.

  Sadira reached into her pocket and withdrew a bead of amber, crushing the golden gem between her ebony fingers. She tossed the powder toward the oasis and uttered her incantation. A huge billow of flaxen mist formed above the gap Abalach had created in her own lines. A thunderclap crashed over the hillside, and the cloud split, unleashing a deluge of yellow beads as large as melons.

  As each globe landed, it exploded in a golden spray that coated anything it contacted. The Raamins cursed and yelled, trying to scrape the sticky syrup from their bodies. The stuff hardened almost immediately. Soon hundreds of saffron pillars covered the hillside, each encasing the astonished form of a suffocating warrior. None of the dark shapes trapped inside the diaphanous columns appeared to be a sorcerer-queen.

  A great cheer rose from the Tyrian warriors, for Sadira’s spell had done more than a little to offset the advantage of the Raamins’ defensive position.

  “Double-time advance!” called Neeva.

  The dwarves broke into a steady run, their formations as tight as ever. The Tyrians began to trot, though their ranks loosened as they picked up speed.

  Near the top of the oasis, a huge circle of saedras turned brown and dropped their needles. Before the needles hit the ground, the red bark darkened to black, and the barren boughs began to droop. The roots released their hold on the hillside. Tree after tree crashed to the ground, smashing Raamin warriors and raising a large cloud of dust.

  The sorceress did not see anyone nearby who could have caused the destruction, though she knew it had to be the result of a defiler drawing the energy for a spell. Since she could not see any other sorcerer in the vicinity, Sadira thought it was most likely Abalach-Re herself who had destroyed the trees. Sorcerer-queens could summon spell energy from plants, as well as from men and animals.