Karin could only guess which of them had been unmade, but the form lying crumpled at the stranger’s feet was missing most of a head and plenty else beside. The stranger’s fist was unmarred; even the blood had strayed away, and its wielder, dressed in simple clothes and bearing a torn scarf that acted as much as a hood as a ragged cape, swept his slow, considered gaze over the nine who remained.
One stayed long enough to show him those bloody teeth, but the pack was gone as soon as they had appeared, and the fell chanting on the wind went with them, back to the north and the gray stones that littered its ways.
Karin’s shin was throbbing. As he straightened, he tested his weight on it and nearly went down in a heap. Broken. No two ways about it.
The gray-eyed stranger eyed the rivulets of sand that betrayed his attackers’ flight and then regarded the mess at his feet with a cold and dispassionate stare.
Karin made as if to speak but found the words lacking. He heard the shouts pour in from his left and cringed as they were sent back in desperate echoes from the pit in which he and the stranger stood. The other man spun and widened his feet, wary of the newcomers’ approach, and Karin heard the thunder of hooves.
“They are friends!” he shouted, reaching his hand out as the stranger tensed to spring. He paused just long enough to see two horses break the plane: the black charger carrying its Ember and the painted mare carrying Talmir Caru. The former clutched the reins in his right hand and had stowed his bow in favor of the Everwood blade that was more a sickle in the left, as yet unlit. The latter held his silver blade aloft, its brightness reflecting off the bronze medal that bounced free from his loose-fitting shirt.
“Wait!” Karin shouted again. Now he addressed his allies, holding one hand toward them as they pulled up, horses’ hooves sliding in the gravel of the narrow gap. Behind them, more riders pulled into view, and Karin saw Jes and Mial among them. Finally, the chestnut mare carrying Iyana Ve’Ran—riding alone and unencumbered—and Karin questioned whether he should give the being beside him the chance to parley after all, given what he’d seen him do.
“What happened?” Talmir asked, urging his mount forward as he held up a hand to those behind. Karin saw Iyana drifting at the back, trying to get a look at him. In front, Creyath kept the stranger in his sights, though Karin saw his eyes switch quickly to the mess behind him.
“Speak!”
Talmir’s shout set the stranger into action. He took two steps forward quicker than the captain expected. The painted mare reared and Talmir brought his saber down, and then the stranger was up in a flash of gray and silver, somersaulting over horse and rider and then, impossibly, higher still. He twirled in a graceful tumble and came down just as quick, landing atop a crest thrice the height of the horses with a heaviness that started a generous pour of sand.
He stayed poised on the balls of his feet, fingers splayed in the sand, and stared with that same strange dispassion, seemingly waiting on the captain to make the next move.
Karin feared he would, the initial shock of the stranger’s leap now replaced by the need to act. Just as Talmir opened his mouth to speak—to give either challenge or orders—another voice rose from behind the newcomer.
“Ceth!”
His gray eyes widened in recognition.
“Ceth! Did you find them?”
It sounded like an old man, and nothing like the mad voices on the wind that had nearly heralded Karin’s death.
The stranger named Ceth rose, slow and deliberate. He kept his eyes on the company caught staring in the maze between dunes and turned toward the sound of the old man’s voice. He leapt, and now Karin’s thoughts spun more, as his arcing flight did little to disturb the sand on which he had stood.
“Captain?” Creyath asked, calm as the rest were nervous.
“Follow,” Talmir said. The others complied as the captain reached down and offered Karin a hand, pulling him up onto the back of the mare. Karin gritted his teeth as the animal lurched forward, his leg bouncing sharply on the side.
“I think he is a friend,” Karin shouted over the wind as the riders left the pit and rounded the bends between ridges in the direction the one called Ceth had gone. They passed the Faeykin—Iyana and Sen regarding them with concern and aloofness, respectively—and kept single-file as they moved.
Shortly after, the hard-packed trail opened up onto a spill that ran up at a slow incline. They took it, the horses slowing as their hooves sunk deeper, and soon they were arrayed in a staggered line atop a plateau of sand that stretched into the distance, a flat-topped shelf bisecting the dunes to the north and south.
Before them, arranged in a similarly haphazard way, was a company that numbered less than half of theirs—if you didn’t count the foxes that ringed the tall figure in front, who was either the Sage they sought or a Landkist of some power.
The leader wore a threadbare shawl that was bright as blood, and his followers wore a mix of matching reds and the silver-grays of the leaping stranger. The latter had silver hair to match Ceth’s. They were taller than the others and lighter of complexion, and their eyes matched their hue. The rest looked like healthier versions of the men who’d attacked Karin minutes before. They were a mix of male and female, and though the lot of them had blades at their belts and bows slung across their chests—all but for Ceth and the old man—they did not look eager to use them.
“I see you’ve met our red friends,” the old man said, his voice full and rich. “They are rather … forward. Wouldn’t you say, Ceth?” He drew out the hiss at the start of the name and slapped the other man on the back.
Ceth stared at Talmir, Creyath and the rest of them as Ket, Mial, Jes with her bandaged hand and the soldiers beside them looked askance at their captain. The old man’s smile disappeared, replaced by what Karin guessed was annoyance. He stood a bit straighter under their scrutiny, and Karin could almost see the intelligence and quick wit in his eyes from here. He had been taller and stronger than Ceth in his youth. Of that, Karin held no doubt. Now, his long, aged face more resembled one of the foxes that sat beside him, gaze forward, eyes looking through rather than at.
“Who are you?” Talmir asked. He asked it of the man called Ceth, but the old man stepped forward.
“You already know his name,” he said. “Would you care for theirs?” He swept his hand out to include the others, who ringed him like protective sons and daughters.
“Fine, then,” Talmir said. “Who are they?”
“They are what you left behind,” the old man said without skipping a beat. His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “They are what you think.” He looked back at a few, especially those who wore their red sashes. “And they are the same.” He pointed at the row of Valley riders without looking.
Karin heard the soft parting of sand between hooves and looked to the right, wincing as the wounds in his back pulsed and throbbed. Iyana pulled up on her chestnut mare, her green eyes focused on him and his hurt despite the circumstances. He smiled to reassure her, but he knew it was weak.
“Not too deep,” he said with a wince as Talmir turned the painted horse, jarring his leg as it slapped against its muscled flank. Iyana frowned.
“And you, old man,” Talmir asked, voice projecting strength that was anything but forced. “Who are you? And no riddles.”
The old man had been looking toward Iyana, his gaze lingering, and on Sen as he pulled up beside her. He switched back to Talmir and smiled.
“I am who you think I’m not,” he said. “What is it you called me when you left? Sandstorm?” He looked to Ceth, who shrugged. He looked at those behind him. Dark and pale, they had no answer. “The Western Watcher. Yes? No.” He saw their blank looks. “The Red Waste, then.” He smiled. “A name never earned, yet widely spread.”
Talmir was too stunned to respond, or too disbelieving. The only sound was the stamp of the horses’ hooves and the faint squeal of the wagon wheels as the merchants, Faeykin and few soldiers left behind worked
to maneuver them through the twisted corridors and up the softer stuff of the sandy flat.
“Come along, then,” the old man said, turning. “Leave your wagons. They won’t make it.”
“We need our stores,” Talmir called. The old man waved it away without turning. The others followed without question, while Ceth stood watching. “Plenty where we’re going,” the old man said, his words carrying back on the wind. “Take what you can carry.”
“What of the others?” Talmir sounded desperate. “The savages will be back.”
“No!” the old man yelled, getting farther away. “They’re near as far from where they should be as you lot. They won’t bother. Not with Ceth here.”
Karin did not miss the way the man left himself out. He leaned forward as a wave of nausea nearly overcame him.
“Captain,” Iyana said, worried. “We need to get him somewhere I can work.”
Talmir twisted in the saddle as Karin fought to stay conscious. He sighed, a mix of concern and frustration.
“Sages,” he spat. Then, to the rest: “Go back to the wagons. Take the beasts. Take what you can carry.”
Even two months before, they might have questioned him. Now, they snapped into motion without a word or backward glance.
Talmir Caru had said a thing. They would do it.
Karin smiled as he drifted, the sun and loss of blood doing its work. He felt strong hands grab him as the soldiers helped him down from the captain’s mount and placed him on what felt like a canvas flap. It was cool, and as he closed his eyes and let sleep come to greet him, he saw her face.
The story of her eyes was concern; that of her mouth, relief.
The sun was less kind to them than it had been the day before, and Talmir knew he was not alone in wishing that it had remained hidden behind the storm clouds rather than gracing them with its blinding, beating presence once more. The rolling flat on which they walked—a sandy plateau that seemed to separate the dunes of the south from the rocky crags and jagged spurs of the north—reflected the fire from above like a furnace, or an Ember’s brazier.
Talmir took another drag from his water skin and realized with a swell of panic that it was among the last. As he rode, he observed the men and women under his command, their steady formation having dissolved in the exhaustion of the trek through an unfamiliar land. Beside and behind him they rode, carrying whatever they could, which was decidedly less than they needed to live out the night, never mind the week. Even the mules in front of him and behind the desert nomads—he supposed he’d have to stop thinking of them that way—were weighed down, carrying the traders and their heavy sacks as they dragged Karin on his stretcher fashioned from the poles and canvas tarps of the wagons they’d left behind.
Iyana rode beside him, her eyes darting down toward the First Runner each time his head bobbed or his shoulders jolted. She spoke harshly to the mules and their riders each time it happened, and though they had at first responded lazily, now they did so straight-backed and nodding.
Talmir smiled, happy for a moment until he remembered the rest, and what had put Karin in such a state.
He heard a yip that jolted him, drawing his eyes to the north. He sighed as he saw two of the desert foxes chasing each other up and down the sliding slope. Farther ahead, the old man who claimed to be the Sage of the Red Waste walked, guarded by more of the loping canines than his human followers—though the one known as Ceth was closer than any, man or beast.
“Ket,” he said, or tried to. All that came out was a dry croak despite the swallow he’d only just taken. “Ket,” he repeated, and the young, black-haired soldier eased the reins to the right, taking him back toward Talmir’s mare. The young man was more alert than most of the company, but even he looked tired and slow.
“Yes, Captain,” he said in a whisper.
“No need for secrecy, Ket,” Talmir said. He glanced ahead and saw a few of the darker nomads looking back, curious where the taller, lighter men and women were suspicious. “If they wanted it, the lot of us would be feeding the carrion birds in that dry pit.”
“Speak for yourself,” Creyath said from the opposite side, his stoic presence nearly forgotten. Talmir waved him away and Ket swallowed.
“The caravan has drifted,” Talmir said, leaning until his horse complained with a series of snorts and one stamp that had him straightening with a shake of his head. “Check on Jes. Get Mial and form up tighter. Four-breasted line and staggered. We can’t have anyone falling without another noticing.”
Ket nodded, eager to comply. Talmir liked what he saw in the youth. Come to think of it, he liked what he’d seen in most of the desert caravan since leaving Hearth just a span of days before. They were young, true. But the young of the Valley were not the same as those in the wider World.
These men and women had faced down the legions of the World Apart, pulled in through rifts during the Dark Months for nearly a generation where the scars between worlds appeared less than half as often without. Talmir and the others—elders included—had thought it a scourge affecting all lands, their numbers increasing as the fabric between Worlds frayed year after year, just as it had in the deserts the King of Ember had fled—the very same they revisited now.
And then they learned the truth of it, and it was still almost too much for Talmir to bear. Their guardian had not betrayed them. Not truly. Instead, the White Crest had been perverted by his dark brother, his mortal coil used as little more than the nectar that fed the Dark Hearts, those throbbing blobs of blotched and bloated horror in his once-proud keep. Whatever was happening in the wider World, the Eastern Dark had accelerated it in the Valley core. All, according to Kole, Linn and the champions that had dueled with a god above the Steps, to forge his champions against the night. His Ember warriors, hidden away under lock and key.
But if the Eastern Dark feared the coming tide even as he used its power so liberally, what was to come?
Talmir shook the thought as Creyath spurred his charger ahead, making way for the other riders Ket and Mial had called up. The black steed’s coat carried an oily sheen in the late afternoon sun to match its rider. Aside from the mules, which complained least, the Ember’s mount seemed in the best state, and Talmir was beginning to worry for the rest.
He spurred his own horse forward, rounding the mules and their sorry burden without a backward glance—though he felt Iyana’s eyes on him—until he came up even with the nomads in the rear. They walked as fast as the horses did, their pace seemingly unaffected by the heat, and though they carried skins along their belts or strung over their shoulders, Talmir could not recall seeing any take so much as a sip throughout the afternoon.
“I need to speak with him,” Talmir said, addressing a young woman whose skin matched most in his own company; he had always been a sight lighter than some, a trait that made him stand out even more than he already did in the training yards of Hearth. The woman—girl, really—shook her head in a mix of confusion and annoyance, her tail of raven hair swinging past her rear.
Speak to him, then, the look seemed to say. So Talmir did.
“Old man,” he called up. He felt childish for doing so, but even that did not draw the looks he’d expected. There was no answer from the front. “The horses are tiring. They need water. How much farther?”
The old man who might be a Sage waved at him in a move that, while only done twice in his presence, already struck Talmir as a habit he would grow to hate. Whatever he said was lost to the wind that kicked up dust and had Talmir spitting. Now the nomads looked, the light-skinned silver-cloaks raising brows and shaking heads while the red-sashes—who could have been close cousins to the Emberfolk—smiled.
“What?” Talmir asked, nearly shouting.
The old man half-twisted and let his maroon hood down. “Then unburden them.” He shook his head and picked up his pace. Talmir resisted the urge to set his horse into a charge right there and make him earn the name he’d claimed.
Instead, he took a stea
dying breath and dropped back to where the mules worked hardest. He already felt foolish for leaving most of their food stores behind with the wagons that would now become another’s bounty—likely the red-toothed savages they’d come across that morning—and now he felt a fool for pushing their animals past anything they might have known in the moist, cool Valley. It was a wonder how quickly the land could change, and the air with it.
Talmir swung his legs over the saddle and plopped down into the sand, stretching the tension from his legs and lower back. He did not ask the rest to mimic him, but they did. Even the young traders unburdened the gray mules and Creyath his black charger, though he knew the animal’s limits far better than the captain. The Faeykin were holding up better than Talmir would have guessed, with Sen still set apart from the rest leading his gray beast while the older male and the red-haired female walked on opposite sides of the big brown they shared.
The yellow brightness gave way to the orange haze that signaled the beginning of the day’s end, and the atmosphere took on a shimmer as the sand gave back the heat it had stored. It made the desert nomads appear as nothing more than one of the mirages the elders of the Valley spoke about from the desert days, though none but Ninyeva had been there.
Talmir matched his company and gave his voice a rest, and his body thanked him for it. The same western breezes that had given him a chill in the nights now felt like a lover’s gentle caress, which made him think of Rain and her namesake. He noticed somewhat absently that one of the red-sashes had drifted closer to the Valleyfolk, glancing at Talmir and at the polished sword that swung from his belt. His eyes were curious rather than covetous, and in the dimming light of dusk, his irises struck Talmir for the flecks of gold he saw in the brown—something he had only ever seen in the Emberfolk.
The Midnight Dunes Page 9