The Phoenix Transformed

by James Mallory

They were stopped for the night. In another six hours or so it would be just before dawn, and half the camp would be taking down the tents and loading the shotors while the other half prepared the morning meal, such as it was. Most of their meals were tea and broth—or hot water and broth—these days. Broth stretched the carcasses of the slain sheep and goats farthest. Only Saravasse and the ikulas pups ate meat.

  “ ‘This’ would be . . . fleeing for our lives across the Isvai and attempting to get to Armethalieh so Magistrate Vaunnel can send a message to the Elven Lands to let them know that the Spirit of Darkness is free and could they please send us some Elven Mages to Bind her before she fills the world with Demons and wipes out all life? Or was there something else?” Tiercel asked.

  “No, that was it,” Harrier said. He lay back on his sleeping-mat and stared up at the top of the tent.

  Tiercel made an exasperated noise. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve found out something new? Because if not, then the answer to your question is: yeah. I’d consider that letting somebody know about that to be really urgent. And yesterday, you did too.”

  Harrier sat up again. “No, really,” he said. “Say it’s a moonturn to Sapthiruk Oasis like Shaiara says. Say we spend a sennight or so there building up our supplies. After that it’s maybe two more moonturns to Akazidas’Iteru, then another moonturn—because we’ll take horses if I have to bespell someone to get them—up the Trade Road to Armethalieh. Or . . . a little more than a third of a year before we can get to the Chief Magistrate. Half a year since Ahairan got loose, because we spent two moonturns in the Barahileth. Is it really going to matter by then?”

  “No,” Tiercel answered promptly. “The Dark has already won. Let’s go to Karahelanderialigor instead. We can just head due east—” He pointed.

  “Nice try,” Harrier said, “but that’s west.”

  “—and be there in three—”

  “—eight—”

  “—six—”

  “—seven—”

  “—moonturns,” Tiercel finished. “And we can warn Queen Vairindiel directly.”

  “Same question,” Harrier said, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. “Only eight moonturns, not five, and that’s just to the edge of the Veil. No guarantees anyone can get through it.”

  They were alone in the tent. Sometimes Bisochim didn’t come in at all, and the Nalzindar spent hours sitting outside just staring off into the desert. Harrier had long since given up trying to figure out why anyone around here did anything. He was just glad of the illusion of privacy.

  “Harrier,” Tiercel said quietly, “what else can we do? We can’t go back—there’s no back. There’s just—”

  “Light and darkness!” Harrier swore, rolling to his feet and grabbing his swords. “Come on!”

  TIERCEL didn’t stop to wonder what Harrier heard or sensed or whatever. He just grabbed a cloak and a spear and ran after him. He hadn’t gone two steps outside the tent before he heard Saravasse’s voice: “There are strangers coming! Arm yourselves! Arm yourselves!”

  Harrier swore again, and Tiercel groaned under his breath. Sound carried for miles in the desert and they could both hear the noises that meant the shotors were upset and preparing to bolt. That meant the goats had probably already fled and the sheep were thinking about it. They seemed to spend half their time chasing the herds and the other half trying to feed them.

  Saravasse hadn’t indicated a direction, but Harrier didn’t seem to be in any doubt of where he was going, and everybody who saw him running followed him. At least they didn’t have to go more than a dozen yards before they were on open sand—whatever was coming, was coming from the south, and that was the edge of the camp the Nalzindar tents were pitched on.

  “Where is it?” Tiercel demanded edgily. The moon hadn’t risen yet, and the desert was still dark.

  “There,” Harrier said, drawing his swords. “Give me some light, Tyr.”

  Tiercel made a ball of MageLight, then another. Each sphere continued to grow as it left his hands and soared southward.

  “Wait,” Harrier said softly, but he wasn’t speaking to Tiercel. “Hear it?”

  “Yes.” If Kamar hadn’t been standing just behind him, Tiercel wouldn’t have heard his voice. Everyone who’d followed Harrier had stopped when he had, fanning out in a long line along the perimeter of the camp, each man and woman straining to see into the dark. Behind them, the camp had fallen eerily silent, and after a moment Tiercel could hear what Kamar heard; the faint squeaking of footsteps on sand.

  “They are men,” Bakhudun said a moment later. The Hinturi Ummara’s voice was soft with disbelief.

  “No,” Harrier said. “I don’t know what they are, but . . . not men.”

  By the MageLight’s glow Tiercel could see them. There were too many bodies to count, all walking slowly forward across the sands. Bakhudun was right. They looked like people. He made his next ball of MageLight sweep down low, shining its light full in the faces of those in the lead, and then he could finally see them clearly. They were naked and barefoot, but every one of them carried some weapon, even if it was nothing more than a length of charred wood. Their skin was as dark as cured leather, and it stretched across their bones so tightly that it seemed as if there was no longer any flesh beneath. Their eyes were nothing more than dark holes in their skulls, their mouths hung open in eternal silent screams.

  “Sand and Star,” Bakhudun whispered in disbelief. “It is Bramah.”

  Tiercel was shaking his head, wanting to say: No, you’re wrong—you’re mistaken. Bramah had been Bakhudun’s eldest son. He’d died just before they’d left the Barahileth, stung to death by Ahairan’s atish’ban-jarrari. Tiercel sucked in a ragged breath, suddenly feeling weak and sick.

  Ahairan walking through the streets of Tarnatha’Iteru, followed by a parade of the dead . . .

  Dreams. Tiercel had been sure they were dreams. He still dreamed about Ahairan almost every night, though after the first sennight or so he’d stopped waking up screaming. Harrier was always complaining these days that Tiercel talked in his sleep, but a lot of people in the camp these days had nightmares. Neither of them had thought anything of it. But what if they weren’t nightmares?

  “I must—” Bakhudun said, taking a step forward.

  “It is not your Bramah,” Kamar said, stepping forward to take his arm. “Any more than that beside him is my Harran. Their flesh, no more.”

  “What do we wait for?” Zanattar arrived, breathing hard as if he’d been running. He spoke loudly, and the ball of MageLight just now rising out of Tiercel’s hands made the wide curved blade of his awardan flash brightly. “Whether they are men or atish’ban men, what has the form of a man can die as one, and surely I and my Young Hunters have slain men before!”

  There were almost two hundred Isvaieni gathered here at the southern edge of the camp by now. Tiercel realized that for the last few minutes he’d been shifting forward unconsciously as the crowd behind him increased. He glanced sideways at Harrier, expecting to see anything but what he saw. He expected determination or anger or even irritation. But Harrier just looked terrified.

  There was a moment in which Harrier might have stopped Zanattar, when he could have told him “no” or “wait” or “let’s do something else.” But he waited a moment too long, and Zanattar uttered a blood-chilling howl and ran out across the sands toward the advancing enemy. The moment Zanattar began to run, the rest of the “Young Hunters” followed, all of them giving voice to the same unnerving cry. Beneath the chain of MageLights, the robes of the running Isvaieni glowed brightly. The naked bodies of the enemies they ran to slay were dark and shadowy.

  Tiercel thought that Harrier might try to call the Young Hunters back, or follow them, or . . . something. But he simply stood watching them, his swords still clutched in his hands, and Tiercel wondered if Harrier was going to stand there and watch the entire battle. At least he wasn’t the only one who’d stayed. Neither Kamar nor Bakhudun h
ad followed Zanattar into the desert.

  “Harrier! Come quickly!” Saravasse’s voice cut through the howling of Zanattar’s people—a dragon could shout very loudly when it wanted to.

  Her voice seemed to shock Harrier out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. Saravasse was at the shotor grounds, so Harrier went around the edge of the camp, where he could skirt the crowds that had gathered. Some of those at the camp’s edge were already running into the desert to join Zanattar, but Bakhudun and Kamar—and Tiercel—followed Harrier, and others, seeing that, followed him as well.

  There were more Isvaieni gathered here than there had been to the south of the camp. Protecting the animals was everyone’s main concern, and nobody had known where the danger was coming from. Despite the fact that they’d been so restless before, the shotors all lay peacefully in their places. The goats and sheep—equally quiet—stood placidly nearby, all obviously bespelled by Bisochim.

  Since that first attack by the Sandwalkers, the shotor grounds were always kept brightly-lit. Creating MageLight and Coldfire was their first task at night camp, and there was enough light here to show the reason for Saravasse’s alarm. Tiercel took a couple of globes of MageLight out of the hovering formation and sent them across the desert toward the advancing figures. It was confirmation, nothing more. The light lit up the same desiccated unclothed bodies, the same hollow eye-sockets and hanging jaws, as the first group he’d seen. The creatures moved with a distinctive shambling gait, as if they’d forgotten how to walk.

  The noise of fighting from the south had increased, and several of the men and women at the shotor-ground began to move in that direction. As soon as he saw what was happening, Harrier said to Saravasse: “Stop them.” He didn’t bother to shout—a dragon’s hearing was extremely sharp.

  “Come back here!” Saravasse bellowed, loud enough to make Tiercel wince and cover his ears. “And do what Harrier tells you to,” she finished in a stern—and marginally-quieter—voice.

  “Bisochim?” Tiercel asked.

  “To the east. He builds a wall of ice to defend us. They come from all sides,” Saravasse answered.

  “And we can’t defend all sides,” Harrier said in disgust. “Here’s a question: how do we kill them if they aren’t alive?” Tiercel was pretty sure Harrier was talking to himself, but if it was indecision, it passed quickly. “You—you—you—” Harrier said, turning away from the advancing line of . . . whatever they were. Harrier grabbed about a dozen people, and his choices looked random, but Tiercel knew they weren’t. He’d picked Kamar and Bakaduk and Sathan, and every chaharum and Ummara in the crowd. “Go through the camp. Get everyone out of the tents—everyone! Send everyone who can fight to the edge of the camp with the lanterns. Gather everyone who can’t—the cripples, the old—in the middle, in the open. One strong fighter for every five of them stays with them. Don’t tell me ‘everyone’ can fight. Just do what I say.”

  No one argued.

  “What about me?” Tiercel said. He didn’t want to be told to go and hide, but he knew he was no fighter.

  “Stay here. Make light. If we all die, take Bisochim and Saravasse and head for the Veiled Lands, not Armethalieh.”

  “But—”

  “Argue later. Light now,” Saravasse said. “I promise, Harrier.”

  “Good,” Harrier said. “You. You were at Tarnatha’Iteru, weren’t you? Then you can hit things. Come on.” He grabbed the arm of the woman next to him and they began to walk out toward the enemy.

  A NALZINDAR’S first weapons were nearly toys: the sharpened stick that could pierce no beast’s skin, the sling and pebbles that could not stun even the lowest-flying bird, the geschak that did not yet have either edge or point. Despite their harmlessness they were all weapons, and every Nalzindar expected to carry weapons everywhere and use them always until he or she laid their bones upon the sand at last, but until she had come away from Telinchechitl, Shaiara had never carried a sword. She carried one now, just as she carried her bow and arrows, her geschak, and her sling, and she kept a throwing-spear to hand when she could.

  The great flat heavy thing felt awkward in her hands: it was not a weapon the Nalzindar used, for the awardan had only one purpose. Shaiara hated it and everything it meant with an intensity that left her breathless, and each day when she took it up, she begged of Sand and Star: Let this day be the last day. Let there be no reason for me to have to wear this blade upon the morrow. And yet when each new day came, it always brought with it the need to wear the awardan upon her hip once more.

  This night she had walked a little way out into the desert. Not far—for Shaiara was no fool—but far enough that she could stand with her back to the farthest row of tents and fix her eyes upon the eastern horizon and say to herself that she was alone here. Or so she might have been able to do had she suddenly been struck incapable of hearing, for the sounds of the thousands behind her were like the roaring of the Sandwind itself and—closer still—Harrier and Tiercel argued about some trifling matter that they would have forgotten by the time the lamps were shrouded for sleep. She thought that when all was lost, and all were slain, and Ahairan prepared to plunge the world into Darkness Eternal, the two of them would still be arguing, and in just this way, and about matters just this inconsequential, as if they could set the world to rights by burying it beneath a flood of words.

  Not even a handspan of night had passed before Shaiara recalled that careless thought. Did Harrier and Tiercel still argue? She did not know.

  She had heard Saravasse summon the camp to face some danger and went to gather her Nalzindar and make certain each had every weapon they could carry. Either the danger was so small and brief that others could deal with it without them, or it would require every arrow and spear they could bring to the affray. By the time they were properly prepared, she knew there was fighting at the south of the camp. Shaiara heard the ululating wail of Isvaieni rushing to battle; heard Saravasse shout for Harrier. She gathered her Isvaieni and went, not knowing what they faced, save that it did not fly.

  As they ran toward the battlefield, she saw a man she knew—Hadyan of the Kadyastar—dragging an injured Isvaieni back across the sand. The woman yet breathed, though her chadar was gone and her face was covered in blood. The stump of a spear protruded from her chest, and with each laboring open-mouthed breath she took, she sprayed fresh blood over her chin and chest.

  “What enemy?” Shaiara demanded, looking toward the battle. Her people stopped with her.

  “Men!” Hadyan answered. “Atish’ban men! They cannot die—and their numbers increase—Ummara—you must help me get Rinurta to Bisochim—she must not die—”

  “She dies now, Hadyan,” Shaiara said gently. “Even Bisochim cannot call her back from death. I will help her, if you wish.”

  She waved the others onward toward the battle and put her hand on her geschak, but to her astonishment, Hadyan dropped the edges of Rinurta’s robes and sprang forward to grab her wrist. “No!” he shouted. “She must not die!”

  Raffa seized his arm and jerked his hand free of Shaiara’s wrist so forcefully that Hadyan staggered. “You forget yourself, Kadyastar,” she said.

  “She dies now, Hadyan,” Ciniran said. She had knelt beside Rinurta, not touching her. Rinurta began to gag and choke in her final agony, her body arching backward.

  “Back—get back!” Hadyan shouted, his voice full of fear.

  Ciniran got to her feet and backed away, though her puzzled expression plainly said that she thought Hadyan’s behavior came from maddened grief at Rinurta’s death. A moment later Rinurta slumped back, lifeless.

  “Come,” Shaiara said, turning to go.

  And Rinurta sat up.

  Her eyes were wide and staring, her face expressionless, her slack mouth drooling blood. She yanked the broken spear from her shoulder—as it came forth, Shaiara saw that it was a heavy spear with a metal point, unlike the weapons of the Isvaieni—and she held the broken thing in her hand as if it was a de
adly fighting knife. So armed, Rinurta began to shuffle quickly toward Hadyan.

  “Atish’ban!” Hadyan cried wildly, backing away. “Atish’ban! We cannot slay them! They kill us and our dead rise up to fight for them!”

  Talmac stepped forward. Unlike the rest of the Nalzindar, he had refused to carry an awardan. Instead, he carried a length of tent-pole that had been smoothed down and wrapped in beaten lead in the fashion of the weapons of the flock-guards, the whole wrapped in wide strips of braided leather. The first swing of the weapon smashed the front of atish’ban-Rinurta’s face in and knocked the creature sprawling, and for a moment the Nalzindar thought it was truly slain now. But then it rose to its feet once more.

  The next time Talmac smashed it down, Shaiara drew her awardan and cut off its head. Again it rose to its feet and shambled forward, moving as surely as if it still had eyes to see.

  “Here is the spell the Shadowspawn has been weaving while her attention has been gone from us,” Ciniran said wildly. “How do we slay what cannot die?”

  “It will not matter if what lies unslain cannot do us harm,” Shaiara answered grimly. “This night we shall be butchers if not warriors.”

  IT took them far longer than Shaiara liked to do what needed to be done. She hardened her spirit to the work—the thing was no longer Rinurta, merely Ahairan’s tool. Even when there was no body, only pieces of flesh, the pieces still twitched and writhed upon the sand. But they could no longer hold a weapon, nor could they attempt to choke the life from the living.

  BY the time the Nalzindar reached the battle-line, others had come to the same conclusion that Shaiara had. The ground was littered with bodies not dead—for they had not been alive—but . . . sundered. Even those Isvaieni who had ridden with Zanattar to war and taken from his ways the disorder of the spirit that made them lust to fight and kill found here more battle than even they had hunger for. And there seemed to be no end to the enemy.

  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.