The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  Indris’s last sight was of Femensetri opening her mouth to speak. Her words were lost as the world splintered into fragments around him, and the Drear swallowed him whole.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Knowing only what you are told is a small kind of life.”

  —Nasri of the Elay-At, Shrīanese dramatist (495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)

  Day 60 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  The night mists and the drop in temperature had driven most of the nahdi in Tamerlan to the Hearthall. Mari avoided the frenetic press of sweating bodies, obscured by the shadows as the Dowager-Asrahn reveled in the heat, the clamor, and the rising temperature of people’s blood. Nadir, Jhem, and the Emissary sat by her, heads bowed close in conference. Belam and Sanojé sat at places of honor, their smiles fixed.

  Eladdin threw his arms skyward, spattered with gore, after gutting a man. Mari winced at the wet red tears in the young nahdi’s stomach. Rather than finish him off, Eladdin watched, wide-eyed, his laughter manic. The man—no, the boy, barely past sixteen—tried to hold his entrails in. He staggered, slipped in his own blood. The Dowager-Asrahn threw coins in a shower from her high table where they bounced and rolled in the blood.

  Her cousin strutted around the Maw of Savajiin, stopping from time to time to hear the crowd shout his name. Mari folded her arms in disgust. We fight not for ourselves, Bensaharēn had told her during her training at the Lament. The warrior-poet—the traditions of the daishäri—are rooted in our sacred calling to defend those who are unable to defend themselves. We are the ones who die, that others may live, our names remembered as those who gave themselves bravely for the greater good. Had her teacher seen the likes of Eladdin, Mari had little doubt he would have cast her cousin down, broken his weapons before his eyes, and rescinded his Exalted Name for all time.

  Spurred on by the crowd and the exhortations of his mother, Eladdin dashed in and punched the beleaguered boy in the face, driving him to the ground. The young man’s wounds opened farther. Eladdin took a handful of his enemy’s hair and dragged him toward the Maw. He pushed him in, the boy screaming all the way down. The crowd went wild, though there were a significant number whose cheers seemed more for form than enthusiasm.

  Enjoy the spectacle, little rooster. Tonight it ends for you and the crone you call a mother.

  Mari scanned the crowd until she found Morne, Kyril, and their crew of Immortal Companions through a haze of heat, smoke, and sweating bodies. The Companions were no more armed or armored than usual, so as not to raise an alarm. There were forty in all, each marked with a pin of a serpent made of ornate blocks, eating its own tail. It was the first time Mari had seen so many of the Immortal Companions in the Hearthall, and she was thankful for the general levels of inebriation. Had the other warriors in the hall been more sober, the presence of so many predators might have given them pause. But the night was cold, and the Hearthall packed.

  “Hey there, pretty lady,” came a breezy voice from her shoulder. “Can I buy you a drink, and talk you into doing something stupid?”

  With a grin, Mari turned and gave Shar a kiss. The Seethe war-chanter was hooded despite the heat. Other than her serill sword and knives, there was nothing to give away that she was Seethe. Ekko loomed behind her. Under the shadows of his cloak, she could see little else but his yellow eyes. One massive hand rested on the hilt of his khopesh, and he opened the flap of a bag to reveal a short bow and a quiver of arrows, each thick as Mari’s finger. Mari drew Ekko into a hug, and the powerful Tau-se purred in response. “I’m glad you’re both here.” There’s nobody I’d rather do this with … No, that isn’t true. Hayden … Omen … Indris. All gone. She blinked rapidly against a stab of grief. But never forgotten.

  “The Immortal Companions are ready to give you your diversion, Mariam,” Ekko rumbled. “Shar and I will remain with you, to better your chances of success. We are not thrilled with the presence of the Widowmaker. We owe him a debt of blood for our dead.”

  “Now is not the time, and here is not the place,” Mari cautioned. “Our objective is Vahineh.”

  “Ekko could carry Vahineh under one arm and still fight if it comes to it,” Shar added with an impudent grin.

  “Isn’t your sonesette a little bulky for fighting?” Mari asked, eyeing the massive stringed instrument strapped to Shar’s back.

  “We’ll need her before the night is done. I’ll add a little music to a lot of wine, suggest a few things in song, help unpop some corks on the violence here, and let the Laughing Wind spirits have their way. I doubt many of these halfwits have dealt with a Seethe trouper before. I’d almost feel sorry for them, were they not in service with the evil old hag who governs this rock. They’ll get what they deserve.”

  “You wanted a distraction,” Ekko added.

  “And you know how people say less is more?” Shar asked. Mari nodded in response, to which Shar grinned wickedly. “Morons. All of them. More is always more. Especially when it comes to distractions.”

  Mari could not help but laugh and hug both of her friends tightly. “I’ve missed you both so much. This may sound strange but I’m almost looking forward to what we’re about to do.”

  “Ridding the world of villains is always something to be relished, Mariam.” Ekko stood proud, an armored mountain of fur and muscle beneath his cloak.

  “And it seems fitting we do this to remember the ones we’ve lost,” Shar added.

  “Shall we, then?” Mari asked.

  “Oh, let’s do!” Shar replied.

  Mari turned her attention to the center of the room, where Eladdin was toying with another victim, cutting the man so he bled profusely without wounding him badly enough to kill. The guards who had been spying on Mari had their attention diverted to the bloodshed. The Dowager-Asrahn thumped her wine bowl, a gold-plated skull with sapphires for eyes, on the table. Wine, thick and dark as blood, sloshed over the side and down her hand. It stained the old crone’s lips and turned her filed teeth red. Some of Mari’s cousins joined the Dowager-Asrahn, though more had slid their chairs farther down the table.

  Leaving Shar and Ekko where they were, Mari made a circuit of the room. She walked from small group to group, and smiled back to those gracious enough to look her in the eye, clasp her hand, or comment kindly. She marked those who preferred the sight of the ceiling, or the wine-soaked and bloody floor, taking their measure in turn. When Mari came to stand beside Morne and Kyril, she subtly pointed out the ones who she thought would not interfere, versus those who were in the thrall of the Dowager-Asrahn. “Most of the nahdi are here because they’ve nowhere else to go. Down on their luck, or defeated in some campaign somewhere and forced to flee for the season. They’re biding their time. But there are those who see a real future with my grandmother, and they’re the animals that need to be put down.”

  “Starting with that one.” Morne nodded at Eladdin where he preyed on a warrior much weaker than himself. “There’ll be an uproar when he’s history. Your grandmother will certainly attempt to have me killed on the spot.”

  “No doubt,” Mari said. “I assume your people will be in position?”

  “We’ll seed them among those most likely to help the Dowager-Asrahn,” Kyril affirmed. “Our warriors will put down the leaders of those groups first.”

  “And the witches?” Mari asked. “Can you drop them quickly?”

  Morne chuckled, checking the buckles on his armored sleeve. “It’s under control. I’ve three daimahjin in my crew, and some of my people learned some bitter truths fighting in the Conflicted Cities. They know the advantages of salt-forged steel.”

  Kyril spoke with those Immortal Companions nearby, who then took their squads with them and went out among the crowds, settling close to those Mari thought would rally to the Dowager-Asrahn. When they were in position, Mari turned to Morne.

  “How are you going to do it?” Mari asked, gesturing with her chin at Eladdin. She winced as her cousin danced behi
nd his opponent, pulled the man’s head back by his long hair, and cut his throat. Blood gushed down the man’s chest, and Eladdin dragged him to the Maw and shoved him in while the man was still alive. The applause was deafening as the crowd sloshily rapped their bowls and mugs against shields, tables, and chairs.

  After stretching his arms, back, and legs, Morne leaned in to kiss Kyril. He smiled, his once handsome face wrinkling around the eyes. “You ask how? Like this.”

  Morne stepped into the combat round, each step more predatory than the last, palm resting on the hilt of his knife with its studded basket hilt. The other nahdi in the room nodded, and some cheered, for Morne was clearly a man not to be trifled with. Eladdin looked bored as he walked back to his sycophants, snorting, joking about how it was now up to the old-timers and has-beens to provide entertainment.

  “Where do you think you’re going, boy?” Morne said to Eladdin’s back. Eladdin stopped, turned, and gave Morne an incredulous look. “Yes. You. Boy.”

  “Are you challenging me, old man?” Eladdin asked with a cruel smile. Mari quickly walked away from Kyril’s side, using the crowd as cover as she made her way to where Shar and Ekko waited. Shar started to strum her sonesette—metallic, discordant notes that set Mari’s nerves on edge.

  “Sounds like it, sau héj.” Eladdin’s eyes bulged at the insult. Small man: weak, shallow, and unaccomplished. Morne swept his arm around the room. “Unless there are other opponents you’d feel safer fighting.”

  “Eladdin!” The Dowager-Asrahn’s voice cracked over the swell of the crowd. She glared at Morne, the old shark recognizing a tiger among the dogs in her yard. “It is time to allow another to—”

  The Sidewinder waved his mother down. He drew his knives and moved forward, gliding from one foot to the next. His blades made shining, weaving patterns in the air. Eladdin’s face was dark with fury. “Stay out of this, Mother! The sharks are still hungry, and this fool seems eager to feed them.”

  The sound of Shar’s sonesette jangled out across the Hearthall, woven with her breathy voice raised in song. Mari did not understand the words but felt her hearts rise at the sound. There were those around her who shrunk in on themselves. They looked about with uncertainty and fear. Mari remembered her sense of impending dread at the Battle of Amnon as the Seethe war-chanters sang, and their warriors enacted their battle as scripted by their dramatists. She had fought all her instincts to hold her blade in her hand, and not run for safety. Hearing Shar’s song now, Mari felt invincible.

  “Eladdin, no!” the Dowager-Asrahn shrieked. “My beautiful boy, do not—”

  Morne drew his dagger and used his armored sleeve, and subtle foot and bodywork, to avoid the flurry of Eladdin’s blows. Eladdin’s expression was unchanged, apparently unaffected by the music. Flawed as his moral compass was, Eladdin had been trained as a warrior-poet, and the daishäri did not break, and did not run. Steel belled, clanged, shrieked, and chimed. Both men fought without speaking, intent on the play of muscle and metal. Red sprayed and both men leaped back, Eladdin aghast that his precious skin had been cut. Blood trickled down his abdomen. Morne reached up to wipe at the scratch on his neck.

  Both men glided forward. There came a whirlwind of cuts, stabs, punches, and kicks. Eladdin seemed a font of energy, his movements explosive, impacts like adder stings. Morne’s technique was an even burn, hot as a forge, intractable as an anvil, his strikes clinical, devastating. Feinting, Morne sunk his armored fist into Eladdin’s stomach, and followed with a hammer blow from the studded hilt of his dagger. Eladdin went face first onto the bloody floor, one of his knives skittering away. Mari’s cousin rolled away to come to his feet, shaking his head. His lips were split, and he spit out blood and part of a tooth.

  Morne gestured for Eladdin to retrieve his knife. The younger man cursed and held out his hand, calling for his sword. One of Eladdin’s cronies dashed forward, to the grumbles of the crowd, and handed the Sidewinder a long-hilted shamshir, the blade sheathed in sharkskin. Eladdin kissed the serpent pommel of his weapon with a flourish. He stood, lean as his sword, renewed with greater confidence.

  “You brought this on yourself, old man,” Eladdin said.

  “It was meant to be this way.” Morne sheathed his knife and called over his shoulder to the smiling Kyril. “My love? Steel, if you’d be so kind.” Kyril unfolded the cloth wrapping from around a long battle-axe with a chisel-shaped blade protruding from the back. Eladdin’s face paled at the sight of it. Shar’s song almost drowned out the Dowager-Asrahn’s mournful wail. Morne hefted the axe. “Shall we?”

  Mari’s mouth went dry as both men savaged each other. The fight had changed, going from duelist’s arena to the battlefield. Sword and axe glittered in the lantern light as the warriors traded blows. Sweat flew and ran down faces colored with effort. Yet it was the younger Eladdin who moved faster and faster, his cuts and footwork precise. Morne moved more slowly, deliberately, as he was driven back toward the Maw. The Dowager-Asrahn and her followers cheered loudly, and chanted Eladdin’s name. The warrior-poet’s grin grew wider.

  Morne stumbled, his back to the Maw. He dropped to one knee, head bowed, hair drenched with sweat, his armored sleeve scratched and dented.

  Eladdin slid from left foot to right, shamshir held crosswise in the fatal Penitent’s End technique. It hovered for a moment, shining, before the blade swooped down toward the juncture of Morne’s head and neck.

  The crowd roared.

  Mari swore.

  Kyril smiled.

  Morne was not where the blade landed. He rose, body spiraling, axe a blur as he twirled it over his head. It made a terrible and bloody crescent as Morne swung it down. The axe bit into the back of Eladdin’s neck. Cut through flesh and bone. His body tumbled in two pieces into the Maw of Savajiin.

  The Dowager-Asrahn shrieked, veins protruding from her sweaty neck and temples like worms. She hurled her wine bowl at Morne, though it fell well short of the mark, the gold skull clattering about uselessly on the bloody floor. Her screams were incoherent, inconsolable, and she raked at her face and chest with her sharp nails. Eventually her words took a hoarse form, birthed from mad grief.

  “Kill him! A thousand golden rings to the one who brings me the head and manhood of this foul murderer. Kill him! Kill him! KILL HIM FOR ME, MY DOGS!”

  The Savadai and those nahdi loyal to the Dowager-Asrahn took up arms. Belam drew Tragedy, and he and Sanojé took to wreaking red havoc among the Dowager-Asrahn’s soldiery. Nadir, Jhem, and the Emissary scanned the crowd, most likely searching for Mari, who slipped behind a pillar. Shar and Ekko were at her side. Mari heard her name being screeched at the top of the Dowager-Asrahn’s lungs.

  Set amid the Dowager-Asrahn’s forces, the Immortal Companions went to work with the ruthless efficiency born of years of service on hundreds of battlefields. From her vantage point, Mari could see the chaos they sowed. Belam was a bloody-handed menace, worse than anything the hounds of Tamerlan had seen, and warriors fled before him, or died. Sanojé pitted herself against the Sea Witches, flinging hexes while maintaining her arcane wards for herself and Belam. As far as distractions went, this served as biggest.

  “It’s time we went about our business,” Mari said to Shar and Ekko. She gave the Dowager-Asrahn one last quick look as Mari and her friends left the Hearthall.

  Grieve while you may, Grandmother. You’ll join your son soon enough.

  Mari led her friends to the trophy room. Household staff saw them coming and made themselves scarce. Those few guards they met along the way were dispatched with ruthless efficiency, bodies left broken and bleeding. At last Mari, Shar, and Ekko came to the ironbound doors. Four guards stood there, leaning on their tridents, looking bored. It took them a moment to realize who it was that stood in front of them. They rapidly took a defensive stance but looked dubiously at each other, at Mari, Shar, and Ekko, then back at each other without much confidence.

  “Way I see it,” Mari said as she walked forward,
unarmed and unarmored yet not slowing her pace, or giving them time to think, “you can move out of my way and let me take back what’s mine. Or you can make the not terribly long-lived mistake of trying to stop me. You have until I reach the door.”

  With a final look at Mari, and Shar with her serill sword, and Ekko his khopesh, the guards melted away like spring snow. Mari unlocked the doors with Dhoury’s key and strode into the trophy room. Rather than one room it was a series of interconnected chambers. The stolen relics of the centuries hung from the walls, gathering dust and growing rust in the damp air. In the center of the largest room, whose ceiling was lost to a cobwebbed darkness above, there were several couches and a small table with glasses, and bottles of wine and spirits. Weapons, armor, shields, crowns, jewelry, books, paintings: Shelves and cabinets and wall mountings groaned with the weight of it all. Mari dashed from room to room until she found her Sûnblade, and the heirloom amenesqa that had been lost in Amnon, restored to her by her father.

  “Hello, ladies!” Mari felt a profound sense of relief as she slung the weapon across her back and buckled her weapon belt with the Sûnblade around her waist.

  The sounds of combat rang down the corridor as Mari joined Shar and Ekko. “Now we can get Vahineh, meet up with Morne, and finish what we started.”

  There was more commotion in the corridors as they made their way to the surgery. More guards avoided them than engaged them in combat: The sight of an armed Mari with her two friends more than they were willing to deal with. Battles, when they occurred, were brief and decisive, the bodies not even cooling before Mari and her comrades raced on. Shar sang dirges to the dead in backward-sounding Seethe as they moved, Ekko silent. When they arrived at the surgery, the doors were unguarded.