The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  “What?” Corajidin looked at Feyd with disdain. “I had not figured a man as ruthless as yourself to have qualms about such things. Besides, I am Asrahn. I will make what we do here legal.”

  “Legal?” Feyd raised his eyebrows. He gestured skyward with his head. “I know of the reputation of the Soul Traders: what they do, and why they’re here. Can morals and ethics be changed as easily as laws?”

  “As easily as you may be replaced as Master of Arms, Feyd.” Kasraman’s gaze was flinty. “The Soul Traders will prove their worth, or be dispensed with. They’ll not interfere in anything we do. If you’re not prepared to do what needs to be done for our undertaking, by all means let’s find somebody who is.”

  “Whatever we do, it won’t be all sunshine and parades, Asrahn.” Tahj-Shaheh sipped a steaming cup of coffee, hands cupped around it for warmth. “Some of your soldiers were stupid enough to pursue the Rōmarqim, despite orders to hold their positions. We lost almost three hundred soldiers in that little debacle alone.”

  “Three hundred versus about forty, in a series of close-quarter skirmishes where our numbers counted for nothing.” Feyd’s tone was respectful. “We shouldn’t underestimate the marsh-knights. They live in the harshest environment in Shrīan, even more so than my Jiharim. The Marmûn, led by Bey fa Harish, are all warrior-poets seasoned in the Rōmarq. Perhaps our forces will learn something from this cautionary tale.”

  “What other losses?” Kasraman asked. His eyes were fever bright, as were those of Wolfram. Both men’s skin was flushed.

  “We’ve lost another two hundred or so to Fenling attacks,” Nix reported. “And some thirty or forty to malegangers, who in turn killed another hundred or so before we realized what was happening. Reedwives pick off our sentries at night, and there was a sighting of a great dhole about ten kilometers from here. Thankfully the wet ground here gives us some protection.”

  “Erebus’s blood! A dhole?” Corajidin’s curiosity warred with his fear. The tentacle-headed worms could measure almost one hundred meters from end to end, thick-bodied, and their maws, tentacles, and the gaps between their body segments discharged acid to make fighting and burrowing easier. “Anything else?”

  “The witches,” Feyd said darkly. He eyed Kasraman and Wolfram, then shot a glance at Elonie and Ikedion. Corajidin followed his gaze to where the two Mahsojhin witches looked about with something akin to rapture. The Master of Arms’s tone was heavy with disapproval. “The witches go mad in this place. It starts off like it is with those that have come with you, with energy and excitement. Soon after, it’s as if they’re lust-drunk, passions inflamed and cruelty made manifest. Then? Well, they reveal their true faces, and must either be restrained or put down, before they drape themselves in their Aspects and vanish into the marshes.”

  “Put down?” Kasraman asked dangerously. Wolfram drew himself up to his considerable height, staring down at Feyd with hostility.

  “Later.” Corajidin waved Kasraman to silence. “How soon until we can proceed deeper into the Rōmarq?”

  “There aren’t many cities to take, Asrahn.” Nix chewed on a mangled nail. “The Rōmarq has always been problematic that way: Why would you bother invading it, when everything that lives in it wants to tear your face off?”

  “Because this feculent mire has the greatest collection of ancient relics in Shrīan, and the Sēq have not got their hands on everything. Besides, we have recently acquired a guide that will help us find the way to these places, hopefully reducing our losses.”

  “Hopefully?” Feyd scowled. “Losing warriors unnecessarily is—”

  “My concern, Master of Arms.” Corajidin looked at the map, then glanced out to scan the stained brown mirror of the wetlands. Once it had been a green and flowering lowland, dotted with ancient cities and places of learning and culture. Until the Näsarats and the Sēq had sunk the center of Seethe power beneath the waves, formed the Marble Sea, and flooded the Rōmarq. Now it was a place of ruins, of wonders and horrors, buried beneath the sediment of ages. If it took every second warrior in his army to take and hold this place to get what he wanted, then it would be worth it. Corajidin had been ousted once from the Rōmarq: He would not be dislodged again.

  Sedefke’s writings are hidden here! His research on Awakening, answers to the questions I need to rid myself of the Emissary, her threats, and her Masters of the Drear. Weapons, power, lost knowledge: the echoes of empire that will be heard more clearly, recited in my voice.

  “It is time we had Kimiya show us her worth.” Corajidin turned to Kasraman. “Bring me some of the captives from Fandra. Let us give the malegangers some bodies as a gesture of good faith. Then she can show us the treasures we have come for.”

  Tahj-Shaheh piloted the wind-cutter herself, landing on a rock shelf surrounded by pools, streams, and flowering grasses. The Anlūki deployed and scouted the surrounding area before indicating that it was safe for the other passengers to disembark. Corajidin reached out to touch the grasses that sprouted from the water, so green and healthy they were as fronds of backlit emerald. The waters, too, were radiant. Everything he touched gave him a delicious tingling sensation, and despite the cool winds, he was warm. The weight of his armor and shamshir felt less than he remembered them from the battle in Avānweh. Voices echoed in his head, too soft to be understood but more than the background hissing that had been his companion for so long.

  Father? Grandfather? Can you hear me? A rise in volume, but no clarity. Corajidin looked about him at the wetlands of the Rōmarq—pools reflecting the sky, flora swaying in the breeze, a cacophony of beasts—but everything burned with vivid, unreal color. What is this place, that I feel so restored? No! Made new and whole again…

  “You feel it, too, Asrahn?” Wolfram asked. Corajidin glanced at the Angothic Witch, who seemed enraptured. “When we came here before the Battle of Amnon, I felt the power of this place. Kasraman and Brede both commented on it, to the point where Brede did not want to leave.”

  “How is it possible?”

  “This place is strong with the ahm,” Kimiya said. Corajidin turned to see the woman. She had bathed, or been bathed, and was once more pretty and groomed, dressed as a soldier. “It is the source of many folds in space and time, and the ahmtesh penetrates our world here, much as it does in some other places of Īa.”

  “Like World Blood Mountain,” Kasraman offered.

  Kimiya nodded. “That is a strong place, and pure. This, too, is a strong place.” She stopped talking and walked over to where ten of the townsfolk of Fandra were manacled together. Kimiya had helped select them: all fit, young, and attractive. She turned to Corajidin and said, “These will suffice for now. To do what you ask, to cause the wanton destruction you want, we need the bodies of those with influence.”

  “It will be done,” Corajidin said. “But let us start our mutually beneficial arrangement with something smaller, neh? These ten, for the location of a ruin nearby that has not been sacked over the years. Something that I will find useful.”

  Kimiya’s laugh was a wet rattle. Heedless of her clean clothes, she walked into the water until it reached her waist, her over-robe floating about her like lily petals. She cocked her head, listening, then crouched until her mouth was below the waterline. Corajidin heard the faint clicking noises she made, a rapid tattoo in the back of her throat. It stopped and started, paused, gained tempo, but was clearly repeated, and clearly a message. Or an invitation.

  Rising from the water, she said, “Best if the rest of you stay well clear. My clan are coming and may not discriminate between one meatsack and another. You’ve been warned, should worse come to worst.” Kimiya took the chain that linked the captives and tugged on it with surprising strength, dragging the now struggling townsfolk toward the water’s edge.

  And with that the Anlūki closed ranks around Corajidin and Wolfram, leading them back to the safety of the cutter. Kasraman refused to be cowed and instead walked closer to the water, his fascination clear.
Tahj-Shaheh took her place at the controls, spinning up the Disentropy Spools and the Tempest Wheels against the need for escape.

  The grasslands became preternaturally quiet. Light flared and faded as clouds skidded across the sun, reflections licking the surface of the water with flashes of silver. One of the captives screamed, “I felt something on my leg!” She tried to step away, then screamed again. Her body jerked with revulsion, and she tried to reach down and pull something off her. A marsh-puppeteer broke the surface. The captive flailed with her manacled hands, trying to dislodge the creature to no avail. The marsh-puppeteer climbed with the agility of a spider, reached the back of her neck, then wrapped its limbs around the woman’s throat. Her screams were silenced as the marsh-puppeteer throttled her. The creature gave a moist, rattling purr as the woman’s struggled slowed. She dropped to her knees, eyes rolled back in her head, skin colored by her asphyxia. There was little movement left in her when the marsh-puppeteer released its grip and scuttled down the inside of her shirt. The woman gasped feebly, but all Corajidin saw were the marsh-puppeteer’s frenzied movements on the woman’s back, beneath her clothes. Blood started to spread, and the lump that was the monster grew flatter, as the woman’s struggles grew weaker, her voice gone hoarse.

  One by one the other captives followed suit. Some collapsed into the water, limbs thrashing, cries and wails burbling as their mouths filled with water. Kimiya stood amid it all, her beautiful face contorted with a mad smile.

  A handful of the puppeteers sped out of the water toward Kasraman. Before Corajidin would shout a warning, one of them leaped, limbs spread wide to claim Kasraman as its own—

  Only for Kasraman to capture it in one hand. The creature thrashed and tried to escape. Another reared. Others edged forward. Kasraman pointed at them and they stood still or backed away. The one in his hands quieted as he looked at it, his glacial eyes luminous to the point of losing color. Other marsh-puppeteers came slowly out of the water.

  They prostrated themselves. Kimiya, too, bowed her head.

  “Kasraman…?” Corajidin whispered. He turned to Wolfram. “What is he?”

  “It’s a question we probably should have asked before now,” Wolfram muttered, hands white knuckled around his rickety staff. “But I’m more concerned with what he may become.”

  Kasraman lowered the march-puppeteer to the ground and gestured for them all to go. Some returned to the water, others to the long grass, but they all left at his command. Save Kimiya and the captives. Though the captives looked the same, there was something about their posture and facial expressions that was at once mad, and predatory.

  “My people thank you, Corajidin,” Kimiya said. “And Pah-Kasraman. You were true to your word. In honor of the gifts to come, we have agreed to take you to a place that will meet your needs perfectly.”

  Corajidin nodded briskly, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “And what is this place?”

  “In our language it would take too long to say. But in its time it was home to a hero of your people. His name was Sedefke, one of many names he had and not all spoken with adoration. This place of his was a small palace before it was lost to the memory of others.”

  “Sedefke?” Wolfram repeated. “We’ve searched so long for his refuges. To finally have access to one…”

  Corajidin laughed, heady with excitement. “Take us there.”

  “Tomorrow,” Kimiya said firmly. “My people need to adjust to their new bodies, and I need to ensure they do not unleash bloody murder among your ranks.”

  “But—

  “Tomorrow, Corajidin. We will not cheat you. What is one more day, against the centuries this place has been lost?”

  One more day. A lot can happen in just one more day.

  “Tomorrow, then.” But the words tasted sour.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Telling a lie often enough, even believing it, does not make it true.”

  —Nimjé, Gnostic Assassin of the Ishahayans and Master of Spies for the Great House of Näsarat (371st year of the Shrīanese Federation)

  Day 60 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Bright streaks of afternoon sun crossed the valley, etching the shadows of trees, statues, and buildings into the snow. In Rosha’s sitting room, Indris watched his breath flower in clouds on the glass. He did not need reflections to know Femensetri glared at him.

  “What?” Indris turned to face her and the other members of the Suret present. “You thought nobody would ever find out how dependent the rahns are on the Sēq? That Awakening isn’t something that just works forever?”

  “What is it you think you know?” Femensetri asked. Ojin-mar stood near the door, while Aumh and He-Who-Watches were seated on either side of the Stormbringer, expressions stoney. The rahns, their families, and their staff had been taken to the Thaumaturgeon’s Hall, where the sick rahns were being treated with the Water of Life by the Sēq-trained mystic surgeons.

  “The volumes in the Black Archives are spectacularly precise about it. The Awakening of those without the necessary mental discipline of the Ilhennim causes long-term damage to the body, mind, and soul. Regular doses of the Water of Life will prevent the acceleration of entropy, but once started must be maintained throughout the life of the person involved. To stop this treatment will result in the progressive and incurable degeneration of—”

  “I think it’s quite clear what he knows,” Ojin-mar said.

  “There’s more,” Indris offered. “Much more.”

  “Do you plan on revealing what you know to anybody else?” He-Who-Watches asked.

  “To what end?” Indris asked. “I’ve no interest in the Sēq becoming pariahs. We know the Water of Life won’t save the rahns. To save their lives, they need to be Severed from their Awakening, or re-Awakened.

  “We can perform the Severances with mixed degrees of success,” Ojin-mar offered. “It’s a specialized skill, best done by healers. But to re-Awaken a person is something none of us know how to do. We can perform the rituals on a new rahn, and let the Awakening take its course. But to imprint new, unknown paths on the body, mind, and soul? There were few who could do it, and they’re long gone from us.”

  “Can you do it, Indris?” It was clear that Aumh was not the only one interested in Indris’s answer.

  “I’ve only seen the barest hints of the rituals you’ve been using since Sedefke vanished, and those rituals require a person who’s never been Awakened before.”

  “If you don’t have an answer, then why are we here?” Femensetri said bitterly.

  “Because we need to find out how to properly Awaken somebody, and to save the rahns. They need to survive and remain as the political presence in Shrīan able to stop—or delay—it from becoming a bloody war magnet.”

  “Thought you didn’t care about the bigger picture, boy?” Femensetri sounded smug.

  “I care about the friends and family who’ll suffer, unless these things are changed.” Indris tried to stare Femensetri down but she would not look away. His voice rose as he spoke, anger overcoming common sense. “The Sēq knew when they closed their doors that they would, in effect, murder the rahns of Shrīan. Näsarat’s bones, you were the ones who put Corajidin on this path of insanity when you stopped providing him the Water of Life. We’d not be where we are if it weren’t for the Sēq!”

  “Faruq ayo, yaha an tehv vanha!” Femensetri shook her head ruefully, even as the other Masters stared at her. She looked at them defensively. “What? He’s what I trained him to be, more or less.”

  “Somewhat more, I think,” Ojin-mar said.

  “This is happening at the worst possible time,” Aumh murmured. “As we feared, the Soul Traders are in Shrīan, and in numbers.”

  “Why?” Indris asked.

  “If only we knew,” Femensetri said. “They come at times of great strife, harvesting souls that they can torture, sell, or otherwise exploit. The more powerful the soul, the more they’ll desire it. The dead don’t
forget anything they knew in life, so there are some souls the Traders would learn some invaluable things from.”

  “Would they be after the rahns, and their secrets of Awakening?”

  “Possibly.” She looked at Indris pointedly. “But there are other souls of power that would intrigue them more. The battle of the Mahsojhin would have been a feast for them. And what Corajidin has planned will see a lot of influential people planted in ashes. But I think they’re looking for somebody specific.”

  “Then it’s even more important I find a way to save the rahns.”

  Indris waited as the Masters began to speak in rapid Maladhoring, his understanding of the language not so advanced that he could gather the subtle nuance. He could tell they were not happy. “I’ll go on a lore quest to find out how we can save the rahns. But I need to know how long you can keep them alive. My journey will be based on the time you give me.” And hopefully this lore quest will work out better than the one I undertook to the Spines.

  The Masters conferred, voices rising and falling, hands placating, crooks brandished or struck against the ground for emphasis. Indris went to the side table and poured himself a cup of tea, taking comfort in its warmth. He glanced outside, guessing it was only some three hours until sunset. I need another night in the archives, and time to set things right with Rosha in case I don’t get another chance.

  Then there was Anj. He needed to speak with her before he left, or else there would be no end of trouble the next time they met. There was much about her that still bothered him. It was one of the reasons he had made the Scholar’s Lantern, to see the truth about her and to set his doubts either to rest, or in stone. And yet I delay using it, for fear of learning another truth I can’t forget, or ignore.