"Are you riding me across the pond?" she whispered. "Are you trying to steal my heart before you steal my camel again?"
He nodded. "You're on to me."
He leaned closer, until their noses almost touched, and she gazed into his dark eyes. Maya had never kissed a boy—unless you counted Eriz Ben Akadia outside Gefen's bakery, but that had barely been a peck. She thought that here it was, here it was coming—her first kiss, and she trembled, and—
Hooves.
Hooves sounded outside.
A wail rose through the desert.
Leven leaped to his feet and drew his sickle sword. Maya grabbed the dagger Atalia had given her. They raced out the tent into the blinding light of the desert.
On the dune above, she saw them. Six camels bearing six riders, all charging down toward them.
Sekadians, Maya realized.
She could barely see their faces. They wore long white robes, and hoods hid their heads. They wore masks formed from great skulls, vaguely humanoid, and startlingly blue eyes peered through the sockets. Those were eyes like sapphires, shining in the sun, staring at her. In their gloved hands, they raised curved blades, longer than any swords Maya had ever seen. Aelarian swords were the length and width of a man's forearm, and Zoharite swords weren't much longer, curved like sickles. But these blades were twice the length and thin, reminding her of the beaks of cranes, and their pommels were shaped as talons. At their sides, the men held whips of braided leather.
"Bone-raiders!" Leven spat and raised his sword before him. "God damn bone-raiders."
The camels reached the valley and began galloping around Maya and Leven, raising clouds of dust.
"What are bone-raiders?" she cried.
"Much worse than scorpions," Leven said. "Desert scum. Outlaws."
"Sort of like thieves?" she shouted over the storm.
The raiders halted their camels and leaped onto the sand. One of the men, his skull mask clattering, rushed over to grab Maya and Leven's camels. The other robed figures advanced, closing in around them, swords and whips raised. One man began to curse and yell. Maya spoke a smattering of Sekadian; Master Malaci had taught her some of the language back in Gefen.
"Drop your knives!" the man seemed to be saying. "Drop them!"
"Your mother's cunt!" Leven shouted and leaped forward, blade lashing.
"Leven, no!" Maya cried.
But the thief ignored her. He soared into the air, then plunged down, his curved sword gleaming. The raider cursed and swung his own blade, and the swords crashed together. No sooner had Leven hit the sand than he thrust his blade upward. For an instant, Maya wasn't sure what happened. Then she saw the raider's white cloak turn red, and when Leven tugged his blade back, the outlaw's innards spilled onto the sand.
The other robed men howled and charged, blades swinging.
Maya cried out as a man reached toward her. His whip flew. Maya lashed her dagger, trying to cut the whip, but the thong wrapped around her arm. She cried out as the man yanked her forward. Another man cracked his whip behind her, and it coiled around Maya's torso, cutting her belly, tightening around her.
Ahead of her, she saw other bone-raiders lashing their whips against Leven. The thief fell, still swinging his sword. He managed to sever one whip, but the others slammed against him. A whip hit Leven's cheek, and his blood spilled.
A third whip wrapped around Maya, this one around her legs, pulling her ankles together. She fell onto the sand. A man leaned above her, eyes like blue lanterns, and Maya lashed her dagger wildly. She managed to cut him. Her blade drove through his forearm, cutting down to the bone, peeling back the flesh, and horrible fear and horrible satisfaction filled Maya.
The man roared, and another raider kicked her. The boot drove into Maya's side, and the breath was knocked out of her. She couldn't even scream. The whip yanked down her arm, and another boot slammed onto her hand, crushing her fingers. She found her voice and screamed, and her dagger fell.
"Leven!" she managed to cry out, but she couldn't see him. The robed figures loomed above her, the skull masks leering, those horrible blue eyes burning her, bright as suns. The blows rained onto her, hands yanked her to her feet, and ropes wrapped around her. The raiders pulled her arms behind her back and tied them, and Maya glimpsed Leven lying in the sand, bleeding, maybe dead. Then a man shoved a sack over her head, and all the world went dark.
She screamed but nobody seemed to hear. She felt them grab her, lift her, and toss her across a saddle. A camel snorted below, and the men talked in their language. One hawked and spat.
"Leven!" she cried. "Le—"
A whip slammed into her back, knocking the air out of her, and the men laughed. Another whip cracked, and the camel she lay across brayed and began to move. She heard the other beasts walking around her. Maya bounced across the saddle, wounded, blind, tied up.
The eagles did not grab me, and the scorpion did not sting me, Maya thought. But the desert is full of many beasts.
The bone-raiders carried her onward—perhaps to slavery, perhaps to death, riding through the heat and light of a foreign land.
ATALIA
She was rowing in the bowels of the ship, her rage fueling her weary bones, when the world exploded with fire, screams, and blood.
The night had begun like any other. A bowl of gruel for each galley slave, a sickening sludge thick with hairs and grains of dirt. Hushed conversation and tears and prayers. Old Zekeria whispered about his slain sons. Joyada, once a priest in Zohar, led a few slaves in prayer, while Tuja, an old Nurian, whispered to the spirits of forebears. And more rowing. Always rowing. Moving ever onward toward Aelar, day after night, week after week.
They said the journey would take twenty days, but already Atalia felt as if she had been chained here for eras, the passing of seasons and the rise and fall of empires. She could barely remember her life outside this ship. Once she had been a warrior. Once she had been the daughter of a great lord. Once she had stood on the walls of a city, defending her homeland with sword and sling. Once she had been part of a family, had eaten lavish meals in a villa under a painting of elephants, had been loved.
That Atalia was dead. That Atalia seemed but a dream, a faded memory of a memory.
Now she was nothing but a slave.
No. She ground her teeth, and her knuckles whitened around the oar. Not a slave. Never a slave. Still a fighter.
She looked over at Daor who sat at her side. His beard was still short but tangled into a shaggy, sweaty mess. His hair hung across his brow, matted with dirt. The stripes of whips still bled across his back, and the chains had bloodied his ankle. He looked like she must have looked—a haggard, beaten, dying wretch. But he was still her soldier.
"We are lions, soldier," she whispered to him, tasting sweat and blood on her lips.
He nodded, moving the oar they shared. "We are lions, Commander."
She was going to reach over, to touch his hand before an overseer could walk by, to show him that she still cared for her soldiers. That she cared for him. She had released her oar, for just that breath, when the world crashed.
Screams.
Blood.
A beast of iron and shattering wood, filling the air.
Blazing fire.
The ram slammed into the hull, shattering slats of wood, snapping oars, snapping men. Shaped like a dragon's head, the iron plowed through galley slaves, a great beast of metal, eyes ablaze with fire. A man fell, skull crushed. A woman screamed, knocked down, her skin and flesh tearing off as the iron dragon pulled back.
"Commander!" Daor cried.
The bench they sat on shattered. They fell, covering their eyes against the showering chips of wood. Their chains rattled, dragging against the floor, and slaves screamed around them.
The ship tilted madly. It seemed to rear in the water like a breaching whale. For an instant, a horrible instant of terror, Atalia gazed through the hole the iron dragon had left in the hull.
And she saw
war. She saw death.
Dozens of enemy ships were sailing through the night, dragon rams thrusting out from their prows. On their decks stood burly, bearded soldiers in fur, wielding axes and torches, their hair golden and their faces painted.
"War!" roared a legionary somewhere above. "Archers, fi—!"
Before Atalia could hear more, the ship slammed down, and water gushed into the hull.
The stream was black, cold, stinging her wounds. Atalia screamed and tugged at her chains, but they were still fastened to the floor. Men and women cried out around her. Above her head, she heard feet thump across the deck, heard the muffled cry of legionaries.
We're going to drown. Terror constricted Atalia's chest. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see. We're going to die.
"Commander!" Daor grabbed her arm.
She gasped for air. The water rushed around her feet, tugging her down, making the chains even heavier. A slat of wood dug into her shoulder.
I can't. I can't breathe. I'm going to die. I can't move.
The ram slammed into the ship again, tearing through slaves only amot away from her. A man fell before her, ribs snapped, skull shattered. An oar drove forth like a javelin, impaling another slave through the belly.
Again that terror seized Atalia. That terror she had felt upon the walls of Gefen. Overwhelming. Sweat drenched her. Water splashed over her. The blood of her fellow slaves coated her.
A coward. A coward. I'm a coward. I can't breathe.
There was fire. Fire in the ship. But she could barely see. Blackness spread across her vision, and Atalia realized she was going to faint, and in the shadows she saw it again: Gefen falling. Her soldiers dying. Her father on the cross.
"Commander!" Daor cried again, grabbing her, tugging on her chains.
She stared at him, blinking. His face floated before her through the darkness.
No. Not all my soldiers are dead.
She sucked in air, and she leaped to her feet.
"Come on, soldier!" she cried. "Out of these chains! Tug, tug!"
They yanked at their chains together. The water kept rushing in. With the hull shattering around them, a few slaves had managed to free themselves, only for the ram to slam into the ship, crushing them. They fell. Other slaves trampled them. Through holes in the hull, Atalia could see the battle: dozens of ships slamming into one another, and soldiers leaping from deck to deck, and flaming arrows filling the night.
She wrapped the chains around her wrist. She stared at Daor.
They gave a mighty yank. Underwater, the floorboards creaked.
The water kept rushing in. The ship rocked madly. Fire blazed. Smoke filled the hull. Above deck, she heard men scream, smelled burning flesh. Flaming arrows streaked through the air outside, and one flew into the hold, hitting a chained slave.
The ram slammed into the ship again, and wood and fire and iron filled the air.
The ship shattered.
Atalia screamed and tugged the chains.
The floorboards collapsed beneath her, and water gushed upward, frothing. She kicked her legs, and she was swimming.
"Soldier, swim!" Atalia cried. "That's an order!"
She grabbed Daor, pulling him, tugging his chains until they too came free from the shattering floor. They swam. What remained of the ship spun around them, and corpses floated, thumping into them.
They plowed through the dead. Chains still dangled from their ankles, dragging through the water. Atalia swung her oar before her, clearing a path through the corpses. With deafening cracks, wooden slats shattered, one by one, thrusting into the hold like the teeth of a giant. The water kept gushing from below. With a roar and grumble like a drowning god, the ship tilted, the stern thrusting into the air. The water churned in a maelstrom as the galley began to sink.
Atalia swam.
She swam through the dark, bloody water.
She swam through the blood washing Gefen.
She swam through a nightmare of dead, of falling kingdoms, of deserts burning, of sand, endless sand and eagles above.
She reached out her hand. The beasts below pulled her legs, hungry gods of waterdepth, chewing, pulling, eating her alive. The chain on her ankle became as a living thing, a serpent of metal, chewing, pulling, drowning her.
But still Atalia swam and still she reached upward, a single hand rising from the inferno.
We are lions.
She roared, unable to hear her own cry over the din.
Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light.
Darkness fell. Shadows enveloped her. The water tugged her, black as memory.
Join us. Join our kingdoms of water. Rest. Sleep.
Through the darkness, light. The light of fire. The light of Zohar. Light above. A moon wreathed in fire.
Atalia Sela, daughter of Zohar, warrior of sand, reached up and grabbed the shattering hull.
The jagged wood cut her hand. Her blood dripped down her arm. Still she tugged, screaming, holding onto Daor with her other hand. She pulled herself up, using all her strength, all the strength she had mustered in the battle of Gefen, for here was the great battle of her life. She rose toward the light.
She crawled out from the crumbling hold, out into the sea, out into water and salt and flame and ten thousand screaming men.
Fire. Light. Screams.
All around her spread the darkness. Bodies sank. Arrows pierced the sea, their flames extinguishing, leaving trails of steam. A ship's ram, a great iron eagle the size of a man, plunged down before her, churning the water.
Atalia danced in the realm of the dead. In the water, they sank. The corpses of galley slaves. The corpses of legionaries. In every face, she thought she saw Koren. Every face became her father's. A dance macabre in black and red water. Kingdoms washed under the waves of war.
Join us. Dance with us.
Atalia screamed, water in her mouth. She kicked, her chain rattling.
Not this night. I am a lioness. I will roar.
Her head rose from the surface, and she gulped down smoke and foam. She swam.
She stared around her, trying to see, to make sense of the chaos. The naval battle raged around her. Slick galleys were charging against the Aelarian fleet. They were shaped as dragons, complete with snarling rams of iron, and dragons reared upon their sails and standards. Their many oars rose and fell, and their warriors were tall, burly, and pale, their hair long and blond, their eyes blue.
"Gaelians," Atalia whispered, eyes wide.
She had rarely seen Gaelians. Sometimes they visited the port in Gefen, traders from the snowy northern lands, come to swap furs, iron ore, and strong spicy spirits in exchange for Zoharite perfumes, vellum, and silverwork. Atalia—with her olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes—had always marveled at these travelers with their snowy skin, golden hair, and sapphire eyes. Aelarians tended to be paler than Zoharites, but they appeared downright swarthy by the Gaelians. The northerners had always seemed beautiful to Atalia, mystical creatures like spirits from a tale.
But she had never seen Gaelians like these. Here were no enchanted traders from distant lands of magic. Here were warriors, brutish, barbaric. Blue and orange paint coiled across their faces, and they roared, baring sharp teeth. Tattoos rippled across their muscles, and their axes swung into legionaries, tearing open armor, cracking shields. The men sported flowing yellow beards, chinking with bone beads, and women fought among them, golden demons with horned helms, shrieking, swinging axes and hammers, terrible to behold. They were tall, beefy people, the largest Atalia had ever seen, and suddenly she thought Gaelians more like beastly giants than kindly spirits.
No wonder Aelar failed to subjugate them, Atalia thought. Here are true warriors. And I'm a warrior too.
"Come on, soldier!" She grabbed Daor. "Swim. To those dragons! Swim!"
They swam, navigating through the battle. Around them, soldiers and slaves drowned. Arrows flew everywhere. Legionaries blew horns, beat drums, and tossed javelins toward the enemy ships.
Barbarians and legionaries battled on the deck of a quinquereme galley. Atalia saw a Gaelian woman, blond braids swinging, slice her axe across an Aelarian's belly, sending entrails flying like serpents from a basket. A legionary drove his sword upward, piercing a Gaelian's chin, driving the blade out the top of his head. Atalia kept swimming, heading away from the Aelarian vessels. Smoke hid the stars and moon, and the burning sails lit the night.
She was weak, wounded, weary. She was too thin, too famished, too haunted. The sea kept tugging her, and an arrow scraped across her hip. But Atalia kept swimming. Her arms kept rowing. She was inside the hull again, moving that oar. Rowing forward. Rowing with her arms. Stroke by stroke. Ignoring the pain. Pain was irrelevant. Pain could no longer stop her. She would keep stroking. She would live. She was a lioness.
And all the while, Daor swam at her side. Bleeding, his breath rattling, but never leaving his commander. Always her soldier.
They swam around a sinking ship. Corpses floated around them. Other survivors swam here too, arrows picking them out. Atalia kept searching for Koren, trying to see him, calling his name. But he never answered. Several Aelarian ships were still afloat; did he row inside them?
"Koren!" she cried. "Damn you, Koren, where are you?"
The only answers were the cries of legionaries and Gaelians.
"The galley slaves escape!" The voice rose from above, shrill, twisted with rage. "Shoot them down! Sink the slaves!"
Atalia turned toward the voice. Past sinking corpses and floating jetsam, she saw him. He stood on the deck of the Aquila Aureum, the flagship of the fleet. Seneca Octavius.
The man who murdered my father.
Atalia was tempted to swim toward him, to climb the deck, to pummel the smirking princeling. But around Seneca, legionaries raised their bows. A hailstorm of arrows flew.
"Commander, down!" Daor said, grabbing her.
They sank underwater. Arrows pierced the surface and sank around them. One arrow scraped across her. Atalia swam lower, then kicked her legs. The chain kept tugging her ankle, dragging her down, but she forced herself to keep swimming underwater. Daor swam with her. An arrow slammed into his own chain and shattered.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 11