In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  A small object dropped from beneath the robes of one of the fleeing men. And then a second fell. Munif slowed down. The Jassaj passed him without pausing. One looked back with raised eyebrows and tilted his head, indicating that the quarry was getting away.

  One of the objects had lodged in a muddy footprint. Munif stopped, noting the surroundings. They were in a narrow alley. A filthy grate ran along the edge of a walkway beside a tall building. Munif picked the object up gingerly, fingering what appeared to be pumice. There was a strange odor to it, similar to rotten eggs. It crumbled from porous rock to ash but was not hot to the touch. Something about the stone was familiar, but Munif could not quite place it. When he realized that the chase had gone on without him, he quickly set off to rejoin it.

  He put on a burst of speed, hoping to regain precious seconds. He could see the Jassaj closing in on the summoners. They had trapped the Carac with no means of escape. The summoners paused briefly, then turned to face the three Jassaj.

  Munif was suddenly aware of a change in the air. Something is wrong, he thought. And for reasons he did not understand, he made a sudden, unexpected decision. “I cannot be seen by the summoners,” he muttered to himself.

  “If you make one move, you will die,” said one of the Jassaj to the Carac.

  Then everything went terribly wrong.

  14

  “ALA’I PROTECT ME.”

  An inhuman scream erupted from the shadows of the cowls where the summoners’ faces should have been.

  Munif knew at that moment that he and his agents, not the summoners, were the prey.

  The low screeching wail made the hair on Munif’s body stand up in terror. From beneath the folds of cloth, a pulse of white-hot light issued forth and engulfed the Jassaj. Hot wind blasted past Munif’s legs, to be sucked into the entities that rose before him.

  He dove head first toward the filth-ridden grate, throwing it up and sliding under it, letting it clang into place above him. The fate of the other agents was out of his control. As soon as he slid inside the grate and tried to curl up, he realized it was not large enough to protect one person, let alone two. He felt warm blood flowing down his forehead as his head and shoulders collided with the stone wall. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the bright light, and he knew what was coming. He tried in vain to pull his legs under the grate as he curled into an awkward fetal position.

  Munif could feel the rush of flames overhead. He heard thepiercing screams of the men as they burned alive. He tried to shrink back farther under the grate but the flames were too intense. He felt them lick at his legs below the knees, and he screamed.

  Although the entire attack lasted a few seconds, Munif lay there much longer, swimming in and out of consciousness. His life passed before him: he saw himself as a child, running and playing with other children beside a small brook. Then, without warning, he faded back into reality and tasted the salty tang of blood.

  Slipping back into a dream state, he saw himself as a young man courting his first love. They were on a swing in a garden and he was holding her hand. Munif remembered that incident vividly and the emotional turmoil that had resulted when the relationship ended. Again, he fell back abruptly into reality, and the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh filled his nostrils.

  Finally, he opened his eyes.

  Although the pain had lessened considerably, Munif knew he was not yet out of danger. Uncontrollable shivering told Munif that his body was in shock. He had to seek immediate help, but he wasn’t sure he could do so under his own power.

  His arms were wrapped around his head. They were stiff and sore as he moved them to investigate the area below his knees. His lower legs and feet were still there. He breathed a sigh of relief that became a strangled gasp of pain. He couldn’t see the injuries, but it felt bad. Despite this, he still had his duties.

  He looked around in the dim light and realized he had miscalculated the size of the grate. The opening was below street level, and the place where he was lying, though cramped, could accommodate several bodies.

  He began to roll slowly and carefully until he was flush against the back wall of the grate. His breath whistled through his teeth each time his raw skin made contact with the rough surface. Once he had righted himself, he reached up and gripped both sides of the grate. A noise outside sent him scuttling back down and away from the grate.

  The time he spent waiting seemed an eternity. Munif listened as footfalls echoed on the stone. Someone had entered the terminus, walking slowly past him. Munif watched as a squat man inspected the remains of the other three agents. Munif could see the bodies were reduced to ash, their charred figures lying forever frozen.

  The squat man seemed pleased with the results, and a swell of hatred surged within Munif. The man frowned and inspected the summoners’ handiwork again. As he searched, he seemed to grow more frantic. Munif managed a grim smile as the man began muttering to himself.

  “It cannot be! There are only three here? It’s impossible.”

  The man walked in a circle around the charred remains of the three bodies. He knelt to scrutinize the scene further, his back to Munif.

  “What can I do? I cannot tell him, I am a dead man if I do. The Lamia’nar had to work! There is no way he could have survived. He must have escaped somehow.”

  The man searched, looking into windows and peering down alleyways. Munif held his tongue and did his best to squeeze himself deeper into the grate. If the squat man spied it and happened to look inside—

  The man let out a cry of frustration that bordered on rage. There was a clang of metal. Munif risked another glance outside, holding his breath.

  The man had picked up a long, flat piece of metal that had been dislodged from one of the buildings during the blast. He poked at one of the agents’ bodies until it fell over and shattered against the stones. He struck viciously at the remains, yelling in fury, until all that was left was powdery chalk.

  Rage filled Munif. Still, he did not move as the man beat the remains of the second and third agent until they too were mounds of ash.

  Munif closed his eyes and focused on his future—a futurebuilt on retribution. He listened as the man continued to flail at the remains of the three agents, until finally he tired, panting harshly, catching his breath. Then at last he left, his footsteps fading into the distance. The alley grew silent.

  Even in his anger, Munif knew this squat little man was not the source of the attack. He used his upper body to pull himself out of the grate. He lay on his back for a few moments to catch his breath and inspect the damage. He’d managed to escape with severe burns, but no muscle damage. The thin layer of linen that clothed his legs had all but disintegrated, and blisters had formed over much of the reddened skin.

  He stood carefully and looked one last time at his fellow Jassaj. In honor of their service, Munif raised his hand to his forehead and whispered a prayer.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  They were all dead.

  15

  IT WAS just past midnight.

  The two summoners slipped out of the room and moved into the hallway. It appeared to be abandoned save for one man sleeping propped against the wall, a bottle held loosely in his hand. The summoners crept past the drunkard and down the back steps out to a deserted back street. The night was cool, and there was a biting wind. The echoing refrain of fellahmin music floated into the alley. Although the Jassaj were dead, the summoners knew not to become complacent; so they set out in opposite directions in order to elude any other spies.

  The men moved with purpose, knowing their final obstacle had been removed. Assuming Fajeer Dassai kept his promise, they would have no difficulty finding their way out of the city. Soon they would be in the safe house that had been prepared forthem several farsangs northward, in the hilly lands beyond Tivisis. Still, they remained wary.

  Hersí felt confident about their apparent success. He wondered briefly if the three Jassaj who’d been consumed by
the magical fire had time to realize what was happening to them as they were engulfed in flames by the unnalíí spell. Secretly, he hoped they had; he had nothing but distain for the Qatani people. His kind, those from Carac, would no longer be viewed with contempt while the Jassaj were exalted. Their mission would garner the summoners both awe and terror.

  As Hersí continued on his path, he thought about the discussion he’d had with Bashír shortly before their departure. Bashír fretted that the plan might fail and those who’d been pursuing them were not dead. “I’m worried about what will happen to us if they indeed live,” he said. Hersí assured him that the Jassaj had not survived.

  “The Lamia’nar consumed every living thing there,” he assured Bashír.

  Despite these reassurances, Bashír was worried about being caught and concerned that the entire mission was still at risk. And he was afraid that if they were captured, they would suffer a pain worse than that experienced by the Jassaj they’d killed.

  It was a promise.

  16

  THE SUMMONERS traveled northward.

  Darkness revealed little as the two summoners moved through the night, leaving the gates of Tivisis behind them. They’d spent the day in a flat on the northern edge of the city, near the Lisbarre Cathedral, Faliini Monuments, and the plaza of commerce. Many of the buildings in this quarter were reserved for dignitaries, and offices gave way to the houses of nobles andmerchants. From dawn to dusk this was a busy thoroughfare with many people passing through it to the port and the lofty towers at Tivisis’ core. Now the cobblestone roads were quiet and empty.

  The summoners climbed the steep road that separated the mainland from the sea. Between two sets of rocky ridges lay a succession of valleys, and the road dropped into the first one to meander for some distance beside a slow-moving stream.

  This wide valley was planted with fields of oats. These farms supplied Tivisis with grain; they kept bread on the tables of those who could afford it. As the Carac continued, the cobblestones gradually became more worn and broken, until a well-traveled dirt road stretched out before them. They kept to the main path running northwest, aiming for a series of steeply rising ridges barely discernible in the distance: the foothills of the Tayar Mountains.

  At the center of the valley, a small village divided the fields of grain from the pastures set aside for livestock. The sole purpose of the place was to provide for the transport of freshly harvested foodstuffs to Tivisis.

  A cricket chirped in the darkness. A bull snorted from a corner pen. A mange-ridden dog trotted up but quickly turned and retreated as it caught the scent of the travelers. The two men moved on steadily without stopping for rest or a meal.

  They crossed a stone bridge over the Lialín River, making their way to the far side of the valley, where a steep, narrow path into the hills gave most travelers pause. The road was constructed with multiple switchbacks to prevent caravan accidents. The shadowy figures pressed on. As they climbed higher, the deep ebony of night receded, and the horizon showed the first signs of morning, lightening into shades of blue. As the stars faded, the summoners reached the top of the ridge. Below them stretched a spectacular panorama.

  On the other side of the valley, stony foothills ascended to the precipitous mountains beyond. In the gray mist of morning, amassive structure of rock revealed itself on one of the promontories. This was their destination, and now they began the arduous trek down the ridge that would lead them there.

  Down in the heart of the vale, they crossed a sturdy bridge. Beneath them, a swiftly moving stream divided the valley. Immediately past the bridge, they left the road for a treacherous footpath through the woods.

  It was here, among the trees shrouded in mist, that the men spotted an abandoned building. It was a small stone house; it abutted several fields that spanned the distance between itself and the great edifice that was their destination. They stepped inside, making no effort to announce their presence.

  The house was much larger within than the dilapidated exterior had led them to expect. It consisted of two rooms, both empty. The corners and the door frames were choked with cobwebs and covered with a thick layer of dust. Hersí opened the shutters of a large window and peered out. He could just make out the outline of the stone fane at the top of the hill.

  The fane near Burj al-Ansour housed many fakirs who sought to become misal’ayn sufis. Lights flickered from small windows, and Hersí realized they were candles placed there each day for early morning devotions. Once the suns rose, the fakirs would begin their day.

  Hersí turned from the window and joined Bashír in preparation for the ritual. The Carac moved without hesitation, despite the fact that neither had performed the spell previously. Hersí watched in silence as Bashír knelt and drew the protective symbols—looking closely for any mistakes. As Bashír drew the first circle, with a second around it, they broke the silence briefly to whisper an incantation.

  Once the circle was completed, Hersí carefully drew the two orbs from beneath his robes and set them in the center. He returned to Bashír’s side and knelt beside him.

  Together they chanted the invocation.

  17

  FOR A few minutes, nothing happened.

  Gradually, the room returned to darkness, save for the orbs, which began to glow fiery red. The summoners began the second part of the spell; the orbs pulsed more intensely with each new word. As they completed their incantation, the globes hissed and swelled. From their place within the protective circle, the summoners watched as a veil of copper smoke rose from each orb in the center circle. Slowly the smoke condensed, metamorphosing into two menacing shapes—damnable things wrested from the depths of a hellish abyss.

  The two forms grew larger within the haze until they towered over the kneeling summoners. The mist of ash cleared to reveal two gigantic, demonic creatures. They appeared to be a combination of rat and boar, their bodies covered with leathery skin and wiry black hair. Curved, yellowish tusks protruded from their wart-covered faces, and their malevolent red eyes fixed on their masters’. The creatures rose slowly to their hindlegs. Both summoners noted that there were sharp claws on each foot. The demons made no effort to cross the crudely drawn line that kept them within the smaller magical circle.

  One of the demons spoke, its hot breath reeking of decaying flesh. “You have called upon us, ‘Those who know our true names’. What is it you seek?” Its voice was low and guttural, as if spawned from the very bowels of Nürr.

  The summoners stood and faced the demons without fear.

  “I offer a reward for your service,” Hersí said as he pointed out the window. “Take the clerics and any others with them. You will find them laboring on the hillside. Kill them. Kill them all.”

  “This request commands a high price,” the second demon said.

  “The veil of the shaitr is lifted. You are free within the boundsof this world,” Hersí said. “But,” he continued, “for your part, you are to not spare a single life. Return here when you have finished… then you may call upon the others.” He paused. “Leave utter destruction behind you… be ravenous.”

  The demons said nothing in response. Hersí sensed hesitation. Then the two creatures bared their razor-like teeth in a grimace. “Agreed,” they said in unison.

  Hersí closed his eyes for a minute and then, with a wave of his hand, he spoke a single word: “Qatil.” With a great burst of speed, the two demons erupted from the center circle and leaped out the window. The summoners smiled.

  The Carac would remain in the protective outer circle until the demons returned. They had a clear view through the window of what they knew was coming.

  The demons charged toward the hillside.

  18

  RAHIB OMMAD was a sinner.

  He allowed himself to commit just one transgression each morning. He would choose the plumpest dewberry from the best vine and eat it.

  It was always only one berry—never two—and always from branches already strai
ning under the weight of ripened fruit. In his mind, since he’d been doing this for several years now, it could hardly be considered a sin. Ommad admitted to himself that, in this, he did have a weakness. Still, he liked to believe he could atone for it somehow later in life. Even the imams had been young once, and he doubted they had been born without a few flaws of their own.

  Ommad did his job well. He worked the vineyards and orchards of a collective famous for its grape and fruit wines. Profit from the wines allowed the clerics to expand their services and undertake more charitable projects. Over the years, this collective had focused on taking in young orphans, raising them with loving discipline, turning little street urchins and beggar-thieves into hardworking young men. Now, in an effort to do even more, the clerics were teaching rudimentary viniculture skills to the local farmers. In return, the farmers gave them produce, honey, and extra help during planting and harvest.

  But the clerics were also hoping to dissuade others from burning or using Azza, despite the Rassan Majalis’ strong endorsement.

  From a young age Ommad had been taught that Azza offered protection from the Jnoun. For centuries the Sultans of Qatana had encouraged the burning of Azza as the only defense against the powerful entities that dwelt in the unseen realm. Azza took its name from its nature—it was said to be the very blood and essence of Ala’i, shed when he defeated the Jnoun and removed them from the mortal world. As long as men used Azza, the Jnoun could not cross the barrier. This practice had become commonplace in the islands of Miranes’, perpetuated by pressure from the long line of Sultans.

  Ommad had learned from the imams however that the legend of the Jnoun had been perverted. But because the lies had been repeated so frequently throughout the years, they had achieved the force of truth—hence it was common knowledge across the kingdoms of Mir’aj that Azza would preserve the barrier and prevent the Jnoun from crossing over.