“North,” he said, slapping the animal on the rear. Iyana was no rider, but she had a poise others her age lacked. She pulled on the reins and swung the beast back around. “Go!” Karin yelled. She pursed her lips, looking beyond him with a searching concern. She wanted to help. “Go,” he said, softer, and she did, wheeling back around and kicking the mare into a trot that became a gallop.
Karin spun to see the first of Talmir’s riders meet the scorched pack of land drakes. He jabbed with his spear, helm still hanging from the saddle. The beasts darted and ducked around the tip. They bit and tore at the legs of the stomping horse, which screamed in pain and rage, frothing as the flesh sizzled above the first joint and brought it down.
The soldier fell, pinned beneath the thrashing mount, and Talmir himself reached in and yanked him free, dragging him away as the reptiles tore into the belly of his steed, the smaller ones charging over the top, drooling acid bile. The soldier came up lame and Karin saw a merchant take up one arm while Ket took the other, dragging him toward the back of the open wagon.
Karin speared another of the creatures with his knife then leapt back as the black and toothy snarls came at him anew. He slid into the sand and found them easier to dodge there, though he took special care to avoid that green spray.
Not all were so lucky. As he leapt the shortest of his assailants and tore toward the east-facing wagon, Karin saw another of the horses go down—an unfortunate sacrifice he recognized as intentional when the soldier who had been riding it snatched one of the Faeykin by the crook of the arm and pulled her back, snatching another horse for them both to flee upon.
Just as another blast of flame from Creyath’s wayward comets struck the clay tower higher up, Karin reached the stamping pair of mules hitched to the wagon.
“Stav!” The young tradesman recoiled, his attention fixated on the blackened earthen tower and now reeling as he imagined Karin as one of the creatures coming to devour them. “Take the cart north and wait at the first dunes.”
“But the captain hasn’t—”
“Now!”
Karin knew he could be authoritative when the need arose. It did the trick; Stav snapped the reins and the mules—the only ones in the whole company of man and beast who seemed entirely unbothered by the current turn of events—took off at a pace that could be generously considered a gallop.
“That’s the water,” Karin said to himself as he turned to survey the battlefield.
He saw Creyath emerge from the westward site, another flaming missile nocked on that shining onyx bow. A few of the lizards gave chase, but they abandoned it soon after breaking the plane from shadow to sun. The Ember’s eyes were up, and Karin followed him to see the image that had frozen Stav in the grip of horrified fascination.
The half-scorched tower of clay—running in places with a mix of melted bile and that stinking, burning ooze—was overrun with more of the things. They poured out like a kicked wasp’s nest, streaming down the uneven, vertical sides like spiders.
“Into the sun!” Talmir screamed, and Karin saw that he had found his painted mare. Karin ran toward him, but the captain caught his eye and jabbed his silver sword. “To the gap and the dunes beyond!”
Karin nodded, though he held steady for a moment longer as soldiers and horses passed him by. The other wagon finally lurched into motion, some of the soldiers fighting with polearms and swords they had yet to unsheathe in the tumult, prying them loose. One woman—Jes, he recognized with a shock—fell back into the bed of the wagon clutching her wrist. He could almost hear the sizzle from here.
He searched frantically for signs of life amidst the killing swarm and saw nothing but two sorry horses, now still.
Creyath thundered past, his black charger stamping the ground in a frothing rage as it sought to crush the scaled creatures underfoot. “Karin,” the Ember said, calmer than he had any right to be. He loosed another burning shaft and a chunk of the clay tower exploded and fell, scattering burning ruin among the moving surface of the desert beneath.
“Up.” The Ember reached down and grasped Karin by the wrist, helping him up behind him, and with a final look at the scored and pitted hell that had so recently been a sanctuary, they were off to the north, the wind whipping in a fury and blowing Creyath’s battle heat back so that it stung Karin’s eyes and dried his lips.
“Any others?” Creyath asked.
“No, I don’t—”
The Ember dug his knees in and slowed the charger. “Karin … ?”
“Is that … ?”
It was.
Ahead, they could see the retreating horses and the wagons. In the distance, Karin could even see the chestnut mare he’d sent Iyana on milling just past the gray stone gate the desert made. But behind, standing in the place before the monolith where the red clay met the dry yellow sand, was one of the Faeykin. He was blond—the one Iyana seemed most wary of, and most interested in.
He stood facing the churning sea of green-black land drakes and stretched a hand out, palm up, unmoving as they came spilling over the red rises.
“Sen!” Karin called, remembering his name. It seemed to snap something, and Sen glanced over at them, his green eyes shining like bright emeralds in the glare.
Creyath did not wait a moment longer. He dug his heels in and set the charger into a full gallop. Karin snatched one of the Everwood missiles absent command and thrust it into the Ember’s waiting hand. Creyath nocked and drew.
“On my command,” he said, and Karin hoped he knew what he meant.
Creyath lit the shaft with nothing more than a thought just as they reached the place where Sen stood, facing the oncoming horde alone. If anything, he seemed more annoyed than relieved at their presence.
Creyath unclenched his thighs and swung himself from the horse, landing in a crouch on the border where the ground changed color and feel. Karin snatched the reins and pulled himself up further in the saddle. He brought the snorting charger back around, heart beating furiously as the hissing reached them.
“Sen,” he said, firm. “Now.”
Sen tossed a strange look at Creyath, who sank to one knee, rooted before the churning pack which waited just on the edges of the dry, sun-baked surface on which he knelt.
Karin took the hand the Faeykin offered and helped him up behind him.
“Go,” Creyath said and Karin did as commanded. He could already feel the atmosphere swelling around them. It seemed to draw in, and he could feel Sen leaning awkwardly as he craned around to get a look at the Ember’s handiwork.
“Forward, Sen,” Karin barked, and he felt the man turn and grip him around the waist. Together they headed for the fleeing caravan, which had already slowed at the foot of the first dunes.
The carrion birds screeched from on high, disappointed so many had made it out, and Karin could feel the eyes of the desert foxes burning into his temple even as he felt the sudden wash of heat from behind. The hissing died, and even the bright of the day seemed stolen for a flash as the light from Creyath’s meteor put it to shame. The soldiers up ahead—those who had stopped and were watching—had looks of pure wonderment and fear in equal measure, and Karin could not say he blamed them.
Karin had seen the Embers do incredible things. He had seen his son fight through a field of demons from another world, burning them up in a torrent of fire. He had seen Garos Balsheer lay low the largest bear the World could ever have known. He had seen Larren Holspahr and Tu’Ren Kadeh at their peaks, though the First Keeper of Last Lake kept his flames well managed.
But Creyath was something different. If he lacked the longevity of combat of the others, he made up for it with something else, a steady smolder that was always ready to light at a moment’s need. Talmir had said as much, and Garos as well. There were Embers who burned longer and fighters—his son among them—who dazzled, perhaps who even held more of the World’s fire in their veins.
None of them lit the sky quite like Creyath Mit’Ahn.
As he reach
ed the lagging wagons and passed between the sand-covered shelves of slate, Karin turned and saw the Ember’s latest masterpiece.
The sky was awash in a haze that had nothing to do with the sun’s heat. And through the shimmering wall, the clay tower had crumbled, laid low by the might of the one who walked toward them—a black figure with his black bow and his calm, measured strides.
Karin felt Sen hop down off the charger and he followed suit. Mial came up at half a run, his white, close-cropped beard caked with sand and sweat—a mixture they were all of them intimately familiar with now.
“Some trick,” the man said. It drew a sardonic, almost breathless laugh from a nearby soldier, and Karin was inclined to agree.
“Some trick.”
It was cool in the shadows of the dunes. The sun was beginning its slow descent, but Talmir’s blood was still up, his anger already starting its change into the acidic guilt he knew too well. It was not so different from the dripping liquid fire of the land drakes and their black razor maws.
He left his mare to wander, knowing she would stay close to the others as the caravan finished setting up yet another makeshift camp. They had traveled for a short time longer, skirting the edges of the smaller hills until they reached one that was set apart from the rest. Here, Talmir could see in three directions. No attacks would come from north, east or south without his knowing of it, and Karin had already taken Mial west, where they would perform the first of many sweeps.
Talmir could still see the smoke rising from the sandy bowl to the south. The clay tower was now half char, crumbling on the edge of a blaze of Creyath’s making. The Ember had come back dragging one of the sizzling husks behind him. At first, Talmir thought he meant to offer it as food, but the Ember was merely a curious type, and it seemed his spirit was shared by more than a few among the company, who gathered around the thing Talmir had ordered dragged back to the edge of the camp.
The carrion birds circled overhead but did not land. They were a patient lot, and Talmir tried to shake the thought that they would just as readily wait for him and his wayward Valley children as the sorry reptiles they’d come across.
He felt a wash of something like heat from within and suddenly lost his horizon, falling in a heap against the side of the dune. He rolled himself over and sputtered, coughing as a portion of the hill tried to force its way down his throat. He cast about and saw that only Creyath had seen him, the wagon wedge having obscured the rest from view. The Ember took a step toward him from the edge of the makeshift camp where Sen, Mial and a few of the older members of the party fussed over the body of the monster, which looked decidedly less threatening now that it was dead.
Talmir held up a hand; Creyath nodded curtly and stayed where he was. Talmir leaned back against the cool, shadowed sand and sighed, closing his eyes as he felt the tiny rivers of earth slide around his neck and greet his shoulders through the collar of his loose-fitting shirt.
The sky had gone from bright to deep blue, reminding him of the lake of the southern Valley. It held the first thick clouds he had seen since entering the deserts, more billowing plumes of ashy gray than wisped tails of white. Perhaps they promised water. Or—like so many things—perhaps they promised nothing. Beyond them, he could see the boldest of the night stars beginning to show themselves while the rest continued to lose their battle with the last vestiges of the afternoon sun.
His heart slowed enough to grant his breath, and Talmir sat up, allowing the sand to run free. He realized dimly that he still clutched the pommel of his sword in his right hand. He laid it across his knees and grimaced at the black smudges that marred its surface. Hopefully the monsters’ spittle would not compromise it when next he needed to parry.
Of course, fighting the beasts the Emberfolk were accustomed to, there was rarely a need for parrying. A part of Talmir longed for another duel like the one he’d waged against the warrior of the Emerald Road; the warrior known as Brega Cohr. The greater part knew the shame at wishing mortal conflict with other men. Better to kill beasts than be killed by them.
Better to not have to kill at all.
He speared his blade into the sand—it plunged below the surface with a pleasant scrape—and looked out over the eastern horizon. The land had grown dark that way, and while the west and north were littered with hillocks great and small like the one he leaned against now, the east was all flat but for the occasional trench—slate scars, smaller approximations of the day-long trail they’d only just come through.
The sky that way dipped into lavender, and Talmir knew Iyana would soon crest the nearest rise to see the purple merge with the western gold.
Talmir sighed and stood, brushing the loose sand from his clothes. He nearly forgot to retrieve his sword and did so grudgingly, his father’s face flashing behind his eyes as he did. He walked toward the wagons, the numbers already rolling through his mind as he did.
Two horses killed. Two. No soldiers.
None.
He paused, a new feeling overcoming him that he rarely let in. He twisted back to the south, eyes wide as he considered the devastation Creyath had wrought.
No soldiers dead. No merchants. Not a one of the Faeykin hurt.
What better fortune could they wish for, given the circumstances?
Talmir turned back toward the lead wagon feeling decidedly lighter than he had moments before. He tried to enjoy it, knowing the feeling wouldn’t last.
He rounded the back of the first wagon and paused, seeing a soldier lying on her back across the wood panel.
“Jes?”
The dark-haired youth sat up with a shock, startling the young Faeykin who sat beside her, that emerald glow lighting the veins of her wrist as much as her eyes.
“Captain,” the young soldier said, nearly breathless. She had a bandage wrapped tightly around her left arm from fist to elbow, and Talmir could see brown stains dying the cloth.
“Apologies,” Talmir said hurriedly, holding up his hands. The Faeykin—a red-haired waif with pale features like the rest—did not look amused, the light flickering almost dangerously behind her eyes. “Take rest, Jes,” Talmir said, calmly at first and then, when she struggled to rise, he repeated it more forcefully. She complied, grumbling as Talmir moved away from the wagon, eager to be gone from the judging gaze of her minder.
The beginnings of a fire had been started in a depression that was little more than shallow pit dug through the first layer of sand.
“Careful with the stores,” Talmir said. The merchants ignored him, while the soldiers nodded deferentially. They had brought several bundles of oak out of the Valley core and had done well conserving it thus far, but the desert nights were cool bordering cold. Talmir shivered to think how bad it would be here during the Dark Months.
“The count?” Talmir asked, drawing their attention back to him.
The young soldier Ket stood to address him, earning a few eye-rolls as he did.
“Twenty-three,” he said quickly, and, when Talmir looked at him expectantly, “twelve wielders of sword, spear and bow; four healers; two traders; three Runners; one Ember Keeper, and one Bronze Star.”
He beamed as he finished and a cheer went up that struck Talmir more for its incongruity in the vast surroundings than for any feelings it might call up of their departure from Hearth. Talmir nodded curtly, letting them have it. He already knew the count, of course, but he wanted the men to know it as well. Wanted them to count each day it stayed the same as a victory.
Hopefully, they had many more to come.
“Captain,” Ket said as Talmir made to walk away.
“What is it?”
“The ground,” he said, pointing toward the pit. The other soldiers shuffled to the side so he could see. The flames had seemed lower than they should have been, and now he saw—or rather heard—the reason. As he leaned over the smoldering pit, he saw sand a shade or two darker than that at the surface. There was a faint hiss, softer and less menacing than the sound the drakes ha
d made, and Talmir now recognized the white smoke drifting from the struggling coals as steam.
“A good eye, soldier,” he said, gripping Ket on the shoulder. “And a good sign.”
“Should we dig?” Canta asked. He was a broad-shouldered brute that reminded Talmir of Baas Taldis.
Talmir swept some of the sand away with his boot. He did it again, carving a groove into the surface of the desert. On the third pass, he was down almost to the heel, and already half the trench had been filled back in.
“Sand’s too loose here,” Talmir said. He caught Ket’s eye before addressing the others, including those leaning against the wagon wheels, eyes drifting closed as they waited their turn at watch. “But it’s a good sign. If the old bags are to be believed, we’re not far from the crags.”
“And what’s that mean?” one of the traders, merchants, treasurers—whatever the annoying hangers-on called themselves—asked derisively.
“It means rock,” Talmir said. “Lots of it. And below, water. The same you see staining the sand this high up rests against the black stone below us. We only need to find the vents, and we’ll find the source.”
“And whoever’s making them their homes,” he tossed back. Talmir shrugged, taking it in stride.
“Afraid of making new friends?” Talmir asked and the soldiers shared a chuckle at the merchant’s expense. He said something under his breath, but Talmir let it go. No harm in airing out a bit of tension after a fight—letting it be aired, in any event.
“Besides,” Talmir said, looking up into a sky that had gone gray quicker than he would have thought, “could be rain coming from the east.”
They followed his gaze and then tracked the smoky clouds back to the east, where they churned as an incorporeal legion above the forest plateau that was lost to sight.
“Keep wary,” Talmir said with a nod as he turned on his heel. He paused and shot them a more serious look. “Not weary.” They shared a laugh at that, but it was a nervous one. Just the way he wanted it. He did not show them his smile as he left them to the guttering flames, though he could feel Creyath’s on his back.
The Midnight Dunes Page 5