The Enduring Flame Trilogy 003 - The Phoenix Transformed

by James Mallory

  If Shaiara were still able to be horrified, this night would have held enough horrors to glut her spirit beyond measure. As terrible as it was to have to destroy the bodies of Isvaieni who had been alive when the sun had set this day, it was far worse to confront withered sun-dried husks and know that they were bodies that had been laid upon the sand sennights—and even moonturns—before. But worse even than these was to find yourself facing an atish’ban-man that had never been born within any tent.

  No two of them were alike. Their tireless shambling forms might be clothed in sun-weathered rags, or in charred scraps of cloth whose tatters festooned expanses of burnt bone, or sometimes in the blackened remains of leather armor. Some bodies still held the remains of the weapon that had killed them—arrow or spear or knife—and most had limbs and bodies hacked and shattered by Isvaieni swords. The thing that made these atish’ban-corpses so much more terrible to face than any other was none of these things, but the fact that their half-skeletal remains were fleshed out by the rotting putrid bodies of dead animals, or by masses of swarming biting insects, or merely by clots of sand. It is an evil day upon which we reap the harvest of Zanattar’s sowing.

  Shaiara and her Nalzindar were at the outermost edge of the fighting. They who lived were fleeter of foot than the dead things which moved as if they lived—but unless the defenders wanted to lead their attackers into the encampment itself, they were slowly being trapped. More of the dead had approached them from the east, sealing off that line of retreat, and when Shaiara had risked a glance behind her, she had seen a wall of white around the tents that rose so high that no tent could be seen. She did not know where there might be an opening in it, nor could she entrust her life to the belief that there was some such opening if she could not see it. It was a hard thing to be grateful for evil done in an evil time, but had Zanattar not come to them dressed in robes of murder, truly all who stood with them would be dead now, for it was Zanattar with his moonturns of warcraft who had seen that Ahairan’s tools attempted to surround them, and it was Zanattar who had ordered them to place themselves in such a way that it could not be done.

  Shaiara set her teeth in her lower lip so hard she tasted blood and backed slowly across the uneven ground. It was littered with debris that was not alive yet would not be still, and she had already fallen once tonight as a severed limb, fat and dangerous with flesh, had wrapped itself about her ankle as if it were a snare set for game. All who fought tried desperately not to allow any of their people to be wounded to death. But those about to die were flung ruthlessly into the hands of the enemy rather than allowed to remain among them and—in death—become a foe clasped to the throats of the living. There was no choice. They were cut off from the camp, and even before they had been, if an injured defender had reached the camp and died within it, they would have done nothing other than brought the enemy within their defenses, and who knew what might happen then?

  Now the defenders and the attackers stood in two curving lines, coiling and twisting against each other like desert adders, and the living line tired and weakened, and the unliving line did not. As Shaiara backed away, the body of Hadyan shuffled toward her. Blood from Hadyan’s slashed throat had soaked the front of its robes, it was not yet dry. The awardan in its hand still gleamed. While he had yet lived, Hadyan had avoided those atish’ban-corpses who had risen up from the new-slain, and the others had no blood in their bodies. Shaiara’s limbs ached with weariness. This was hard painful work that killed mind and body and spirit together, this need to hack and hack and hack at an enemy that never stopped moving and never died. Even the ones that looked as frail as a bundle of oilbark twigs were stronger than a young bull shotor—those Isvaieni who had not been wary enough or suspicious enough had taught the survivors that grim lesson early, and rose up as enemies with their throats ripped open.

  The body of Hadyan swung its sword as it advanced, as if unliving metal as well as unliving flesh anticipated her death. Shaiara sprang forward and struck as hard as she could, but she was tired and her blade had dulled—she cut to the bone but did not sever the hand. The shock made atish’ban-Hadyan drop its awardan, at least, and so there was a brief moment when it paused and stooped—with ponderous deliberation—to pick it up again. In that moment, Talmac rushed forward with his club, smashing the body of Hadyan to the ground. Talmac continued to beat it, rhythmically, like a woman threshing grain, so that each time it attempted to struggle to its feet it was knocked down again. And in the moments that it lay helpless. Shaiara dropped her awardan and seized the one it had carried—though her skin crawled to touch it—and with a blade that had not been dulled by handspan after handspan of hacking through meat and bone, she began to cut the body of Hadyan into pieces as Talmac continued to batter at it so that it would not rise up again to fight.

  “Shaiara!”

  She told herself that her relief at hearing Harrier’s voice was merely that if he lived, then surely there must be an end to this fighting, some victory.

  “Back,” Harrier said as he reached her. “Retreat. Fast as you can.” He touched her shoulder briefly and moved on through the press of Isvaieni, taking his message to others.

  Shaiara found Ciniran, Raffa, Natha, and Narkil, and told them to retreat. Talmac had been beside her and had heard Harrier’s word. She had already destroyed the body of Tanjel this night. The bodies of Kattan and Taspoc had been destroyed by others not of the Nalzindar, but Shaiara had seen them fall, and later had seen the destruction of their bodies. Ciniran and Raffa had destroyed the body of Marnuk. Larasan and Thadnat yet lived, and she had not seen Kamar since before the beginning of the battle. She counted quickly. Seven, perhaps eight—and the eight children at Abi’Abadshar—were all that remained of the Nalzindar.

  Even as she reckoned the cost of the night’s battle, Shaiara was moving through the press of warriors, giving Harrier’s word to those who had not yet heard it. It was a simple matter—though hard in the heart—to do as he bid. All that one must do was turn and run, leaving those at the front of the battle to fight on alone. She was one of the last to run—Zanattar ran beside her and she was certain Harrier followed—and when she reached the wall—it was ice, breathing out cold as a fire might send heat—Shaiara stopped and looked back.

  Harrier had not come with them. He stood alone in the desert, crowned in the blue fire that hovered above this place of death beyond death, as the atish’ban-corpses shambled toward him over the scattered bodies of their own kind.

  “I must go back,” Zanattar said, starting forward.

  “You must wait!” Shaiara said, her voice a harsh whisper. She dropped her awardan to the sand and grabbed his arm. “We shall see what the Wildmage holds in his heart.”

  She watched as Harrier reached out his hand, pointing.

  And the atish’ban-corpses began to burn.

  They burned in silence, as if they were unaware that they burned. The dried flesh of the ancient dead kindled in a flash; ancient rags burst into flame in a rush of sparks. The robes of the fresh dead burned brightly for a few moments before they too burned away, but the dead still burned, and their scorching flesh gave off black smoke and a sweet familiar scent of roasting meat that made Shaiara ill to smell it. All of the dead walked onward, brightly burning.

  The ancient dead were the first to fall, crumbling away into fragments of charcoal and embers blown upon the wind. Only the fresh-killed dead now remained—barely a score of bodies shambling implacably across the sand. They sizzled like fat meat at Gathering time, their bodies red and black with fire. Blue flames danced over their skin as they burned. But still they came.

  “Run now, Harrier!” Saravasse cried. “Run, all of you!”

  Harrier turned and ran—toward them, toward the wall of ice. Shaiara turned and ran as well, along it, following the tracks others before her had left in their flight. Its surface was cold and wet beneath her hand, and her throat clutched with thirst.

  The wall curved, and they’d gotten a
little way along it—far enough for Shaiara to see a great fire kindled off in the desert—when there was a flash behind her. Bisochim had called lightning, a sky-fire hot enough to burn even fresh meat to ash.

  Harrier staggered to a stop and sank to his knees in the sand, gasping for air. “Fire destroys them,” he said between gasps. “Sometimes you need a really big one. I should have thought of that . . . sooner.”

  “More,” Shaiara said, her words short and clipped by her weariness and pain. “There were more. And—”

  Harrier nodded, still too winded to speak. He waved toward the north. “Blocked off the camp,” he said, between gasps for air. “They . . . went around it. She must have . . .” He shuddered and stopped, but Shaiara knew what he would have said. Ahairan must have called up all the dead from every one of the Iteru-cities.

  There was no note of censure in Harrier’s voice, yet beside her, Zanattar moaned in the voice of one who had taken so grievous an injury it could not be borne in silence.

  Harrier staggered to his feet with a groan. “Yeah. You’re going to find them a little harder to kill this time,” he said.

  “Do not!” Zanattar begged. “I have—”

  “You’ve fought to save your own skin tonight,” Harrier said flatly. “You did a good job, too. But I’m sure you know exactly how many more of those things Ahairan has to throw at us.”

  “They are slow,” Shaiara said. It was the only comfort she could think of to offer.

  “We need to sleep, and they don’t,” Harrier said grimly. “And fire will destroy them, but there are only three of us who can Call Fire, and I’m not sure how long Tyr can do it before he falls over. He and I can only burn the old ones, anyway, not any that are . . . new. We’re running out of arrows—and I suppose out of things to make arrows out of?”

  “Thornbush makes a good arrow, if the wood is soaked and straightened. The root of the desert plum, though it must be cured with care. The bone of the shotor also makes a serviceable arrow, though it is sometimes brittle. But many . . .” Zanattar stopped.

  “Many simply chose to trade with the city-dwellers for wood from the Tereymil Hills,” Shaiara finished, her voice hard, “for trees grow in that place whose wood makes a fine arrowshaft.”

  “Well, we aren’t going to be doing that any time soon,” Harrier said. “Come on.”

  As they walked in the direction of the shotor-ground, they passed a group of Isvaieni walking toward the battlefield. All carried spears, and a couple of them carried the large woven baskets that were a common means of packing and carrying. The fitful night wind carried the scent of burning wood and burning flesh into Shaiara’s nostrils. As she had said, there were no trees in the Deep Desert save at the largest of the oases, and the atish’ban-khazdara had probably destroyed those as well, but even so, there was wood to be found to build a pyre. Ever since the Isvaieni had discovered that their home had become a barren waste, all the desertfolk had winnowed their possessions, day by day, casting off that which was foolish and unnecessary, as the true-khazdara cast off its skin before it began to swarm.

  But nothing that was wood had been buried in the sand and left behind to be forgotten. Wood would burn.

  The wall of ice stopped suddenly—it was thicker than the height of the tallest man, Shaiara discovered when she reached its edge—and now that she had come to the end of it, Shaiara could see that the entire eastern side of the encampment was still open to the desert. Better, she decided, that it be so, that they be able to run, if need had come.

  When they reached the shotor ground, Tiercel awaited them. Kamar stood beside him, and Shaiara allowed herself a breath of gladness. Though she felt her tribe’s losses keenly, Shaiara did not think it greedy to take a moment for joy that her father’s brother lived. The Isvaieni had lost so much this night, kinships and bloodlines that had survived the crossing of the Barahileth, all gone. The Kadyastar had lost not only its Ummara-to-be with Hadyan’s death, but in the death of Rinurta, the last of Liapha’s direct line was gone as well.

  Tiercel handed Harrier a waterskin. Harrier passed it to Shaiara untouched, and she drank deeply. “Is there going to be enough wood?” Harrier asked, gazing out into the desert.

  “Probably,” Tiercel answered. “We’re going to use all of it, though. Har, I need—”

  “We’ll think of something else for next time, then.” Harrier sighed, and scrubbed his hand over his chin, pulling at his beard.

  Shaiara passed the waterskin to Zanattar. He took it with a soft word of thanks and, when he had returned it, walked on toward the tents, seeking out other Lanzanur, or perhaps merely others of the Young Hunters whom he had led into battle this night. She found it within her to hope that the madness had not claimed all of them; it was a thing not seen among the Nalzindar, but she had heard it spoken of at the Gatherings of the Tribes, and heard how it could even be passed from one sufferer to the next, as if it were a disease of flesh, and not a disorder of the spirit. And while she pondered this, Shaiara turned Harrier’s unyielding words to Zanattar over in her thoughts. All knew that Wildmage wisdom could be bitter as tea brewed from the rock-naranje, and she did not know yet whether to think that the Wild Magic had spoken, or his own heart. Death lay between Harrier and Zanattar, and that was a heavy burden, yet that Zanattar should now know that those he had been moved to slay through lies and folly had become the Darkspawn’s weapon was a heavier burden still.

  “Where’s Saravasse?” Harrier asked, looking around.

  “She’s out by the fire. Keeping watch,” Tiercel answered. “Everybody else has to watch the fire, so . . . you know. Look, Har, we really need to—”

  “Yeah,” Harrier said. “Good. I’ll just—”

  “Sit,” Shaiara said. “Rest. Sleep.”

  Harrier looked at her and smiled faintly. “I will if you will.”

  THE sky was lightening with dawn before the last of the pieces of the atish’ban-corpses had been cleared from the battlefield and consumed by fire. Tiercel had named the creatures “Shamblers” and soon it was a naming that everyone used, for to use such a new name was better than to hold upon the tongue and in the heart the knowledge that Ahairan had taken for her own that which should have been left to return to the desert in payment for all that its owner had taken from the desert in his or her years of life. Shaiara hoped that never would there be need of it again, save to speak of things which lay in the past.

  When the total of their dead was reckoned, it was not as great as Shaiara had feared it must be, though it was heavy enough. The greatest part of the losses had fallen to the tents of the Lanzanur, whose people had followed Zanattar and fought beside him, but their other losses were cause enough for sorrow.

  The Kamazan were gone. No more would Sathan argue with Anipha over goats or sheep, and the name of Kamazan itself would be entered upon the tally of the Lost Tribes, its name set beside so many others to be read out at the Gathering of the Tribes, should there ever be another. Ummara Luthurm of the Adanate had followed Ummara Kanarab into death less than a moonturn after becoming Ummara of the Adanate, along with thirty-six of his people. If the Adanate could not now find among themselves someone they could agree upon for their Ummara—and who would agree to become Ummara—they must either seek outside themselves for such a one . . . or the surviving Adanate must seek another tribe to join with and the name of Adanate must be set beside the name of Kamazan upon the tally of Lost Tribes.

  But despite a night which harrowed the heart even as it wearied the body, the first dimming of the stars saw the tents being struck and the shotors packed and saddled. No one wished to remain in this place.

  Ten

  The Slow War

  WHEN THEY STOPPED to make midday camp, Harrier had taken Shaiara aside.

  “I want to speak to everyone—Ummarai, chaharums—before we break camp today,” he said. “And Zanattar.”

  Were he Isvaieni, Shaiara would have been able to know already what lay within his mind at thi
s speaking. With Harrier, she could not guess. “What is it that you will say?” she had asked cautiously.

  “That your peoples’ way of doing things isn’t working. It’s time to try mine.”

  Now the Ummarai and chaharums were all gathered together beneath the canopy of the largest tent. Even so, the space was crowded, for Harrier had insisted that all who spoke for the tribes be present. Many also stood outside the tent to listen. Shaiara could sense their restlessness. It was oddly unsettling to begin such a speaking without the ritual cup of kaffeyah, but Shaiara did not think that even Fannas possessed any stores of kaffeyah now.

  “Since we left Telinchechitl, we’ve lost one thousand, four hundred, and eighteen people to Ahairan’s attacks. We have another six hundred and four people riding with us who’re permanently maimed. Last night, Ahairan attacked us using a new creature—Shamblers—using a new kind of spell: anyone a Shambler kills becomes a Shambler. Bisochim can’t undo the magic that makes them move and fight, and if he can’t, I can’t. You all know how difficult it is to cut up the fresh ones. Without wood they’ll be hard to burn, and we’re out of wood. If we don’t burn them when we can, Ahairan will be able to use them again.”

  His audience stirred uncomfortably. Harrier was telling them nothing more than what they all knew.

  “Ahairan’s taking bodies from the Iteru-cities. Those catch fire easily, but if she can make even half of those dead into Shamblers, she can send . . . about thirty-six thousand Shamblers against us.”

  There was a moment of silence, then everyone in the tent began talking at once. Harrier let the shouts and recriminations and arguments go on for a few minutes before he began gesturing for silence. When no one heeded him, he got to his feet. “Shut up!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard, but he had only shouted to be heard, and as soon as he had silence, he continued.