With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Taken only from the fringes. People who know little of our inner workings. We’ve remained as intact as we could have hoped.”

  “For what gain?”

  “What fool told you to always expect gain? We fight our battles. We’ll lose some, there is no doubt, but we will win this war.”

  As they passed the Trough and continued along the same street, Emre noted just how smug Hamid seemed. He was good at hiding his emotions—much better than he’d been as a child—but Emre could still see the signs. “Something’s happened.”

  He shrugged. “We have a bit of information. More than we had yesterday.”

  “No, it’s more than that.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Hamid’s mouth.

  “Tell me.”

  “Our journey to Külaşan’s palace . . . It may not have been so fruitless as we thought.”

  “Hamzakiir?” When Hamid didn’t react in any way, Emre understood. “He’s been found?” Hamid half nodded, half shrugged, as if he could neither confirm nor deny Emre’s assertion. Emre pointed to Hamid’s kaftan, where the list was secreted away. “He asked for that, didn’t he?”

  “Nothing like this happens in the Al’afwa Khadar without leave of our leader, Ishaq.”

  It told Emre much. That Hamzakiir had indeed returned. That he was now plotting with the Host’s leader and Macide’s father, Ishaq. “But the collegia?”

  “Tell me, Emre, if you hoped to strike at the very heart of the Kings, what would you target?”

  Emre wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Their sons and daughters.”

  Hamid smiled. “Go on.”

  The Blade Maidens were the most obvious answer. They were the pride of the Kings, firstborn daughters, each and every one. But the Maidens were a particularly thorny group to target. Emre had seen some truly talented soldiers in the Moonless Host, but there was no denying the Maidens were the most skilled swords in the desert, and they had a penchant for exacting revenge in a way that showed they weren’t merely good at it—they reveled in it, took glee in it. Surely even Macide would grudgingly acknowledge that when the scales were weighed, the Maidens often came out ahead. Emre doubted the Host were ready for another confrontation after the campaign of murderous retribution waged by the Kings after Külaşan’s death.

  So if not the Maidens, then who? Of course the answer was right in front of him. “We’ll take their brightest minds.”

  “As they take ours,” Hamid replied.

  The collegia. Hamzakiir was targeting its students. Emre had known few people who had risen to enter the collegia, much less become a scholar. But he, like many in Sharakhai, considered it a noble calling. “Are we sure about this? The collegia?”

  Hamid didn’t flinch. “Nearly everyone who enters those halls are rich, the sons and daughters of the lords of Sharakhai or those who hail from foreign noble families. Good riddance to them all.”

  What he said was true. Each year, some few of the collegia’s robes were granted to promising students from the poorer quarters of the city, but more and more it was difficult for the common man to reach those hallowed halls. “Good riddance,” Emre echoed, “and now we can do it at our leisure, take them one by one.”

  “That,” Hamid said with a sidelong grin, “would be altogether too slow for our purposes.”

  Chapter 12

  WHEN THE GROUND BEGAN SHAKING like the beat of a heavy drum, Ramahd knew what was coming, but try as he might his body refused to move. He stood at dusk by Meryam and King Aldouan’s side, for all the world another stone in the desert. Along the western sky, the sun burned, a molten copper splash, where the rest of the sky was the color of a darkened bruise, a vast remembrance of pain and torment. A figure approached, lumbering forward, the sounds of its passage delayed ever so slightly from the fall of its long strides. Pebbles and sand on the glasslike surface of the ground skittered.

  As it came, Ramahd fought. He fought to escape. Fought to choke down his fear. Fought to speak so that he could, perhaps, release Meryam or his king. But nothing worked.

  Guhldrathen neared. Like a wolf stalking its prey, the ehrekh’s form was hunched, its nostrils flared. Its eyes, set into blackened skin, were sallow. A crown of thorns adorned its head. Its forked tail swished in hypnotic patterns, the pace of which quickened as it neared. When it came within ten paces, it stopped and stared at the three captives, offerings to a false god. It gave them a wide berth as it circled, eyeing each in turn as if deciding just what to do with them, and in what order.

  When it approached at last it hunched lower, the muscles along its arms rippling as it spread them wide. It came to a stand before Meryam. “Is it so? Thou comest unprotected with sigils upon thy skin?”

  Meryam said nothing, but Ramahd could hear her breath rasping through her nostrils, quick as a desert hare.

  Guhldrathen moved to stand before Ramahd. It lowered its head until the two of them were eye to eye. Ramahd could smell its fetid breath, but could not rear back, could not look away. “The pup who chaseth the White Wolf.” It smiled, blackened lips receding, yellowed teeth now bared.

  It stalked to Ramahd’s right, coming to a stand before Aldouan. Ramahd could see only its tail, which twitched in rhythmic patterns. “And a third.” Ramahd heard the king gasp, heard a sound like the puncturing of skin, then a smacking sound like a child licking honey. “Blood of thy blood,” the ehrekh said.

  It resumed its pacing, circling them, stopping before Ramahd several times to examine the mark upon his forehead, doing so before Meryam and the king as well. The sky continued to darken, and still the ehrekh paced. It was wary, Ramahd realized. It surely knew by now that Hamzakiir had been the one to deliver them. No doubt it could smell Hamzakiir’s scent from the sigils on their foreheads, painted with his blood.

  Ramahd wondered if he might use that to his advantage, but how? Hamzakiir’s bonds were still in place, and nothing he did, no matter his desperation, no matter his anger, seemed able to dislodge them.

  With Tulathan cresting the horizon in the east, Guhldrathen slowed, then came to a stop before Aldouan. Its breath was coming in great huffs now. At last Ramahd managed movement. He was able to turn his head to see the ehrekh staring at Aldouan. The beast stretched its neck out, then slipped a forked tongue between its black lips and lapped at the blood laid by Hamzakiir upon his skin. It closed its eyes and shivered, as if savoring the taste.

  Ramahd knew what would happen next, knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Yet still he railed against his bonds. Touch not my king! Take me! Take me, foul demon!

  But the ehrekh was intent on King Aldouan. With no preamble, it clutched the king’s shoulders and pulled him in while clamping its wide jaws over the king’s chest and collarbone. When the beast’s head withdrew, the sounds of cracking and tearing went with it. A dark mass of red was revealed. Blood spurted from Aldouan’s neck, spraying his chin as his head jerked back reflexively. Dark trails of blood arced over the twilit sky, pattering against the translucent stone a moment later.

  Leave him! Take me and leave him!

  But it was too late. The ehrekh’s lips pulled back, revealing blood-stained teeth. And then it was on the king with an abandon it hadn’t shown before. Thank the gods for small favors, he pushed Aldouan to the ground. Ramahd could no longer see his king, but he saw the beast’s head jerking back, over and over. He heard the silken sound of fresh meat being rended. Guhldrathen was devouring the King of Qaimir before his very eyes, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nor would he be able to prevent it when his turn came. Alu forgive him his cowardice, but he hoped it would take him next, not Meryam.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Guhldrathen plunge a clawed hand into King Aldouan’s chest, saw it ripping Aldouan’s heart free from his rib cage, which lay shattered, open for god and man alike to see. It ate until sated, and then paced along t
he stone in some unknowable pattern. It slowed, bent down, put a finger to Aldouan’s ruined form, then drew a symbol on the stone with fresh blood. It drew another symbol next to it, an ancient form, a word of power perhaps only the desert gods still knew. It moved from place to place, marking the stone here, then there, stopping to inspect its handiwork or snuffing in displeasure before laying more blood to correct the growing, infernal device it was laying on the stone.

  It took a long while, but as the ehrekh’s work continued to expand there was a quieting, a dwindling of the keen ringing sound Ramahd hadn’t entirely been aware of until then. It was Hamzakiir’s presence, he realized. It was not gone, but it was certainly diminished. And he could see it in Meryam as well, for it was then that she fell to the ground, sobbing. Her frail form crawled to where her father lay. She threw one arm across the ruin of his chest as if to hide the carnage, or to protect her father in some small way after failing him so perfectly.

  Ramahd found that he could move as well. His limbs begged him to collapse, to lie in a fetal ball to await his death. His knees shook, and he was so unsteady he staggered merely to remain upright. But stand he did. He had to. He could show no weakness to Guhldrathen, now of all times.

  “Enough,” Ramahd said, lurching forward until he stood directly before the ehrekh. The beast was half again his size, but hunched over as he was, still feasting on Aldouan’s heart, Ramahd was able to look him in the eye. “Leave this place, Guhldrathen.”

  The ehrekh stopped chewing. A low chuckle escaped him, the sound of thunder in the darkest hours of the night. “I was given thee to do with as I please, and so I shall.”

  “You’ve taken what was offered, a life in forfeit if she failed to bring Hamzakiir to you.”

  “Her own life hath been offered.”

  “And you took her father’s, which was worth much more to her.” Ramahd stepped aside, motioning to Meryam, who hadn’t yet moved.

  She sobbed as she touched her forehead to her unmoving father’s. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  When Guhldrathen took a step toward her, Ramahd blocked its path. “Our lives were offered by Hamzakiir, the one you seek. The one who owes you his blood. You would accept from him trinkets when a chest of gold is owed you?”

  A mischievous twinkle appeared in Guhldrathen’s eyes, a reflection of Tulathan, bright now in the east. “Thou and yon woman are but trinkets?”

  “To you, yes. You want Hamzakiir, the one who betrayed you, the one who stole from you as if you were a fool and a beggar.”

  The ehrekh’s nostrils flared. “Much is owed.”

  “And you will have it. You have taken a life. You have supped upon her father, a king in his own land brought to the Great Shangazi by trickery and betrayal. We seek revenge against Hamzakiir as well. In this we are aligned.”

  Guhldrathen looked him up and down. It stood to full height, and when it huffed like a bull, its head and shoulders shook.

  “Give us time. Take our king’s blood and be glad, knowing that we will return with more.”

  “And if thou fail?”

  “If we fail, I will deliver myself to you.”

  Guhldrathen craned its neck, then shook its massive head. “My wish is no longer for thine own blood, nor the daughter of thy king.”

  “What then? Name it, and it shall be yours.”

  “I will have the blood of the White Wolf.”

  Ramahd’s head jerked back. “What did you say?”

  Guhldrathen didn’t respond. It only moved its head back and forth, a black laugher sizing its prey.

  “Her blood is not mine to give.”

  The ehrekh blinked. Its gaze flicked beyond Ramahd to Meryam.

  Gods, the hunger in those eyes. Meryam had told him how the ehrekh could become fixated on certain men or women, living through them, sating their hunger for the touch of the first gods. He remembered how Guhldrathen had acted the last time they’d stood in this place. It had sniffed about Meryam, Ramahd, and his gathered men, spending the most time on Ramahd himself, and then it had told him if he wanted to find Hamzakiir, he need but follow the White Wolf. Had he been the one to set Guhldrathen on her scent? Had its infatuation started in that very moment?

  Mighty Alu, he didn’t know what to do. The thought of promising Çeda to Guhldrathen made him go cold. To wager one’s own life was one thing. To wager hers was quite another. But what else could he do? He must right the scales. He must see Qaimir safe. And if all went as planned, he would have Hamzakiir and he would deliver him to Guhldrathen and none of this would ever matter.

  “Don’t, Ramahd.” This came from behind him. He turned and found Meryam staring up at him, her pale face blood-streaked but otherwise strangely bright in the moonlight. Her look pleaded with him to simply let this all end. “My time has come.”

  She wasn’t thinking straight. This was merely a moment of weakness. She would recover. He would make sure she did. And then they would find Hamzakiir.

  He turned to Guhldrathen, pulled himself taller, and said, “Very—” He swallowed, licked his lips. Gods, how dry his mouth had become. “Very well. Should we fail, the White Wolf’s life in forfeit.”

  The ehrekh turned its gaze on Meryam for one weighty moment, as if sizing her. Something inside Ramahd turned over and over, like an eel trying to free itself from a fisherman’s hook. To gamble with another’s life was a foul thing. It gave him no pride whatsoever, and yet it was little different than what he did as a lord. Little different than what a king did with those who served him.

  “By thine own blood dost thou forge this bond?” Guhldrathen asked.

  “By mine own blood,” Ramahd said, holding out his arm. Using the sharp point of the silver ring on his thumb, he pierced the skin of his wrist. Blood welled and trickled down his hand. As Guhldrathen took his hand and lapped at his bloody fingers, Ramahd felt his fingers and toes go cold.

  “So it shall be,” it said.

  Taking Ramahd’s head in its hands, it licked the blood clean from his forehead with a tongue so warm it made Ramahd’s stomach turn. Hamzakiir’s taint was slowly lifted. The keen ringing that had diminished with Aldouan’s death now vanished. His flesh and blood no longer corrupted, he stood straighter, saw the desert around him with new eyes. He took a deep breath. For all the painful memories of the past months, Ramahd felt like a man reborn. The night air had never smelled so sweet.

  Meryam, as if realizing it couldn’t be avoided now that the bargain had been struck, stood bravely on shaking limbs. Perhaps she was unwilling to face the ehrekh as a mewling child might, or perhaps she’d sensed what had just happened to Ramahd, and wanted the same for herself. Whatever the case, Guhldrathen repeated the ritual with her, then strode away.

  Meryam went through a stunning transformation. She was frail as ever, but she stood to her full height for the first time in what seemed like years. She breathed deeply, then released a discordant laugh, a sound that evinced both sorrow and relief.

  When the ehrekh’s booming footsteps had receded, then faded altogether, Ramahd held his hand out to Meryam. “Come.”

  She looked to the body of her dead father. She bent down and took off his ring of office, his golden necklace as well. After secreting them away inside a pouch at her belt, she took Ramahd’s hand, and the two of them began walking across the desert, northeast toward Sharakhai.

  Chapter 13

  ÇEDA RODE AT A FULL GALLOP, third in their line of five horses as they sped along the Spear toward the House of Maidens. Ahead, the House’s outer gates stood open. Four Maidens stood on the ramparts, watching the line of people and carts and wagons awaiting entry. Below them, eight Silver Spears inspected those at the head of the line.

  As their horses powered over the dry street, Sümeya stood in her stirrups and waved her ebon blade. “Clear the way!”

&
nbsp; The line reacted quickly, bowing their heads as the first four horses passed by, but many lifted their eyes, some gaping openly, at the woman being dragged over the ground behind the final horse, Kameyl’s. A Sharakhani man in a bright orange thawb shielded his daughter’s eyes while, just ahead of him, a pair of Qaimiri ladies in a covered wagon lifted kerchiefs to mouths. During open displays of the Kings’ power such as this, failure to pay obeisance to the passing of a Maiden was often overlooked. Allowing the lowborn to see such things only added to the mystique of the Blade Maidens. That it also added to the hatred of them was viewed as a fringe benefit. The Kings dealt in many currencies, after all; gold might be the most valuable, but respect and fear were not far behind.

  The woman alternately moaned and screamed as she was scraped roughly over the stone and packed earth. Her light linen dress was tattered, her legs torn and bloody. They’d found her in the bursar’s office. She was the officiant who’d tended to the two men, the agents of the Moonless Host. She’d denied any wrongdoing, but after a few short minutes of questioning, Kameyl had grabbed the woman’s hair and dragged her all the way to the collegia stables, at which point she’d tied the pleading woman to her saddle and set out for the House of Maidens. Çeda had tried to think of a way to stop her, but she knew Kameyl wouldn’t listen. Not after they’d lost her prize: the scarab who’d escaped them in the maze of the Shallows.

  Somewhat unexpectedly, King Yusam strode to meet them as they rode for the paddock. They gave their horses over to the stable girls, at which point Kameyl bowed to the King and asked leave to bring the woman to the interrogation rooms, a request Yusam granted with a wave of his hand. The rest of them—Sümeya, Melis, Yndris, and Çeda—stood before him while Sümeya recounted the tale, Çeda and the others adding details where Sümeya could not. He paid particular attention to Çeda’s story of the bowman. Çeda didn’t use Emre’s name, and tried to be as general in her description of him as she could, but Yusam pressed, his eyes studying hers carefully. He asked for details, any details, and so Çeda told him of the bracers in case Kameyl or Yndris had seen as much, figuring to give that up would mean little. But when she described them, Yusam’s eyes relaxed, as if there had been a tension building up in him that was released with that information, perhaps confirmation of something he’d seen.