In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  No one should have to endure as much as she had—no matter what their crime or what they’d suffered in life. She hated Sarn because she needed him. She needed him to save her from becoming him.

  Marin and her escorts rode behind Sarn and Prince Malek, making good time in the blaze of the double suns. Off in the distance, mirages shimmered along the endless horizon, seeming to float over the blinding white sand. Sarn had told Marin this morning that the oasis was only a day’s journey away.

  And when we find the last book, she thought, will I have the conviction to kill you?

  Rammas shook his head as if reading her thoughts. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You know what we must do.”

  Surprised, Marin found herself nodding.

  She secretly hoped Sarn had heeded her request.

  16

  DARKNESS FELL.

  As the second sun set, they made camp at the base of a large sand dune. Malek and Sarn sat huddled together away from the others.

  “We’ll stay at the oasis only long enough to regain our strength. The location of the treasure will not be far away,” the Prince said. “And when we are finished, we return.”

  Sarn nodded. His mood was reflective and troubled. All day he’d been lost in thoughts about Marin and the potential consequences once the book was found and the ghuls were released.

  “She will lead us,” Malek continued. “When we reach the spot where she will unearth the fifth book, I will move quickly. One slash with the blade, and her blood will spill out onto Rim al-Jass.”

  “And the others?” Sarn asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

  “Surely they will not be too much for you to handle. I will help once I’ve killed Marin.”

  “Releasing the ghuls will be our foremost concern,” Sarn said. “The men who accompany Marin will no doubt fight them, but I can’t guarantee your safety.” He looked at the Emir. “It’s possible that their strength will be too great even for me.”

  Malek smiled. “I have confidence you will defeat them. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

  Sarn nodded. “Then once it’s finished, you will give me my reward.”

  “Yes.” Malek smiled. “And then your curse will be lifted.”

  Sarn nodded. This promise outweighed any other decision he could make. His glance darted toward Marin’s camp. He’d been thinking about what she’d said to him. Now her words brought back memories of Fajeer Dassai and the actions that ultimately had sent him on this path of fate. That single act of rebellion—stealing the Books of Promise and laying them beside Hiril Altaïr’s body—had brought them into the hands of the woman whom he knew to be Hiril’s widow.

  “Follow my lead,” the Prince said. “And do not fret. Our journey will end soon.”

  Sarn nodded. “I’m ready.”

  17

  WAHA AL-RIBAT.

  Ahead of them they could see a ring of jade floating in an alabaster ocean of sand.

  Despite the welcoming oasis, Marin was lost in visions of her encounter with the assassin. That she was a trained warrior of the Four Banners was still true, but she was first and foremost a woman.

  She felt the pain of those who needed nurturing. Upon hearing Sarn’s life story—how his adolescence had been spent, the treachery of wicked men, and his search for peace—her entire body had become exhausted with inner turmoil. Here was a man who was not at all what he seemed. Sarn was no demon; he was a mortal tormented by memories and dreams—and a curse.

  Sarn had told the story of his time with Fajeer Dassai in the tone of someone making a confession. Dassai had taken him so far beyond the border of humanity that he’d ceased to be salvageable. Marin could do nothing to bring him back from the darkness—and she could not let go of her hatred of that evil.

  After reaching the oasis, Marin chose to be alone. She spent a good deal of time at night ruminating over their conversation. She had shown Sarn some sympathy but could not, under any circumstances, allow herself to tell him her own story. She had also been careful to not say anything that would cause him to suspect her true intentions. She knew that anyone who had been held captive long enough usually ended up feeling some connection to those who held him. She also realized that by leading Sarn and Malek out into the desert, she had put herself and her entourage in mortal danger.

  Little more was said between the two of them in the following days. Their conversation defined their uneasy relationship. It was in their eyes when they met, in their touch when they brushed against each other. Very clearly, it said that one of them would not walk away from this alive. Marin was determined to be the survivor.

  At last they were ready to leave the oasis. Although they faced danger once more, they were refreshed and eager, ready to ride to the finish. Marin looked into the eyes of her companions and knew they all felt the same way.

  The end was near.

  18

  THE SUNS were beginning to set.

  As they approached the dunes, Sarn motioned for Marin and the others to hang back. She and her company stopped and watched as Sarn and Malek rode between the dunes toward a low hill. Sarn dismounted and knelt.

  For a moment Marin was struck by the stark emptiness of the desert and the feeling it aroused in her. Serenity. This place was imbued with it. For miles in all directions were nothing but undulating dunes in a graceful, shifting sea of white sand. Beyond, andeverywhere surrounding the lost oasis, the Rab’al-Athar was devoid of life yet eager for death. Marin understood now how so many could be taken by this presence, overwhelmed by a the powerful spirit of the place.

  Many lives had been lost here, overwhelmed by the elements. It was said that the winds of the desert often carried the voices of the dead. Marin shivered. She could almost hear the shrill cries of those disembodied voices all around her.

  That life could exist in a land so forsaken defied logic. There was a strange power in the desert that could lead a traveler to believe the only way out was death. And indeed, many who had crossed that barren ocean of sand had taken their own lives simply to be rid of the menacing magic that surrounded them.

  Yet north of them, in the direction from which they had come, was an oasis so beautiful that it brought instant hope for redemption. If the traveler, weary and demoralized after endless days of journeying through this unforgiving wasteland, could only know—even as his final hope withered—that such an oasis lay just with reach, he might hold on. However, Waha al-Ribat was not known to many, and few ever succeeded in reaching the place.

  Even when Marin had drunk in the serenity of the green oasis before she left it again, she could not shake the sense that this was not the journey she had bargained for. She knew terrible things were about to happen here in this temporary haven—things that would change the meaning of beauty for her forever.

  She observed Sarn as he knelt upon the sand and realized that he, too, was apprehensive.

  They were close now.

  19

  SARN STOOD at the top of a dune.

  He looked out over a vast sea of shifting sands. It was the third day since they’d left the oasis; they’d been traveling since early morning. Marin had told them they were close now. He’d meandered along behind, talking with Rammas as Malek led the way up the massive dune and then stopped.

  Sarn knew that Marin was standing behind him, watching him carefully, but he did not acknowledge her presence. Did she suspect him? Had she known all along that he had killed her husband, and was seeking revenge? He dismissed the thought. After all, how would she have found out? Sarn had committed Hiril Altaïr’s murder in the absence of witnesses. No, he reasoned, she couldn’t possibly know. Nevertheless, Sarn sensed she was far more dangerous to him than she appeared. And that angered him. Was she to cut his life short even before it truly began again?

  “I do apologize for my behavior,” Marin spoke softly, and her remorse seemed genuine. “I am sometimes too outspoken for my own good.”

  “If you were not outspoken, you woul
d not be Marin Altaïr.” He immediately regretted his placatory tone.

  “Of course, I understand.” Marin stood beside him and followed his gaze. Sensing his discomfort with the awkwardness of the moment, she provided him with an opportunity to recover his dignity by offering a compliment. “Once we have the final book,” she said, “can you also control the weather and bring good fortune to our return?”

  Sarn smiled tightly. The twinkle in her eyes suggested she was teasing him. “And you think I could not? Am I not Ciris Sarn, the Kingslayer?” he said mockingly. “I control all things that I choose to control.”

  He felt Marin stiffen beside him. This was an interesting woman, and he longed to learn more about why she had chosen such a dangerous path in life. Surely she could have been anything she chose to be. She was beautiful and charming, and it was difficult to imagine a man who would not be drawn to her. Yet, something about her seemed strangely familiar. Marin Altaïr was a woman, but she was also something more.

  She wanted to ask him something; Sarn could sense the unasked question hanging in the air.

  “Tell me why you killed my husband.”

  But she said nothing.

  20

  IT WAS HERE.

  Marin knelt over a perfectly round etched stone set in the sand. How can this be, she thought. How can it just show up like this? The desert should have swallowed it ages ago.

  Although not devoid of beauty, it was not something one might seek to possess. Three feet in diameter, it sealed a smaller opening sunk in the desert floor. Prompted by Malek, Sarn joined them, and together the two of them brushed the sand away from its surface, slowly uncovering it.

  “It has always been here,” the Emir observed as he watched them work. “The sands of time have chosen to reveal it to us.”

  It took them only a few minutes to sweep the gypsum granules away from the surface. When it was finally and fully revealed, Sarn knelt before it, looking at the designs engraved in the ancient stone.

  Sarn knew that with his touch he would release the power that guarded the treasure.

  “Go ahead,” Malek whispered to Sarn. He almost appeared to be smiling. “Open it.”

  Sarn was reluctant. Dassai, Malek, and the rest of the power-mongers sickened him, but he had no choice. He was their pawn in a desperate game. But he was determined to outlast them all; and in the end he would find a way to break their stranglehold on him.

  Sarn studied Marin in the fading light. Something stirred inside him, but he was unfamiliar with the feeling. He knew that she was much more than she appeared, and in a way, he was bound to her. Still, she would fall like all the others, and it pained him deeply that he did not have the inner strength to resist the compulsion. He could not allow anyone—least of all her—to divert him from his course.

  It was the only way.

  21

  SIMPLE.

  Break the seal and remove the lid. Then Malek would force Marin to deposit the books into the well, and Sarn would reseal it. If they could do it quickly enough, perhaps the ghuls would not attack.

  Sarn was caught in the middle. Rather than creating the destruction, he would be merely a spectator. The Emir had orchestrated everything, from the decoy in the palace to using Marin to find the resting place of the fifth book.

  Sarn wondered how he could possibly have been so blind to Malek’s intentions. Usually he knew at once when someone had turned on him. He had allowed this to happen as surely as he had allowed Marin to reach parts of him he had always kept locked away. Over time, he had grown so weary of his deceptions and illusions that he had let his guard down once more. If he wasn’t careful, he would pay for this lapse of attention with his life.

  He had to find a way regain control of the situation. And it

  must end with the killing of Malek himself.

  Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

  22

  SARN HAD one choice to make.

  He had to do it. Once the seal was broken, he could not allow Marin to die with the rest of them. He closed his eyes and saw her as he had seen her that fateful night, a shadow against the setting suns. She was beautiful, but he had thought that from the first moment he’d seen her. There was more to it than that; she was compelling in a way he’d never known before. Now she was the only thing that kept him from releasing the ghuls.

  Sarn had never felt this depth of emotion for anyone. He vaguely remembered having felt something like it for another woman who had also cared for him—but that was long ago.

  This was different; it was far more powerful. The need to protect Marin Altaïr struck him to his very core.

  Sarn would let the others die; he did not care what happened to them. In fact it would be better if they perished; it would be much easier if it were just he and Marin.

  Of course, he also knew that this could never happen. Yet he had to try. He was tired of living a lie—the illusion that life had meaning, or someday might have. Other lives were guided by the hand of fate—a sense of purpose that showed them the straight path. Were they different in some way? Had they been chosen by some inexplicable game of chance long before this world even came into existence? Were those people who seemed to have perfect balance in their lives—blessed by virtues such as patience, kindness, generosity, and the capacity to love another person—simply singled out by fate? Or was it an illusion for them as well?

  Sarn sighed and shook himself from his musings, and focused again on the present. If I could only find a place where we can be

  together, he thought.

  Even for the briefest of moments….

  23

  RAMMAS SHADED his eyes with his hand.

  He scanned the horizon, gazing at the cloudless sky for a moment before turning to Emir Malek and Ciris Sarn. Sarn knelt before the stone seal he had just uncovered. Marin stood behind him, anxiously clutching the leather bag that contained the Books of Promise. Where the ground had been a smooth, uninterrupted layer of sand just moments ago, now there was a crater revealing an intricately inscribed capstone.

  A fierce wind blasted across the landscape as Rammas made his way over to Sarn, kicking sand up into the air, forming small whirlwinds, sand-dervishes whirling across the dunes. The sand stung Rammas’s exposed cheeks and lodged itself in his flesh. He pulled a long strip of cloth from his pack and wrapped it around his face and neck. Beneath the scarf, he did his best to spit out the grit. He squinted against the onslaught.

  The landscape stretched out interminably, waves of gypsum that swirled into and out of one another in an ever—changing estuary of sand. In the distance he spied a rift, a small canyon of exposed limestone rock.

  Sarn remained silent as Rammas approached. His attention was focused on the ground before him. The suns glinted off the lid that sealed the well. The stone was a brilliant white, and it nearly blinded Rammas.

  “I want to know what is going on, and I want to know now,” Rammas demanded, his face flushed with anger.

  “As you can see, I am about to open the well,” Sarn replied calmly. “What we seek lies within.”

  The Emir’s met Rammas’s gaze and nodded. Rammas turnedback to Sarn, who appeared to be hesitating. “I don’t like this,” he said.

  Sarn waved away his concerns. “Don’t trouble yourself. I will open the seal, and then all five books will be in their rightful place.”

  “This treasure has caused enough strife. It is a plague upon the world,” Rammas said. The thought made his adrenaline rise.

  “It has,” Sarn said. “And Fajeer Dassai was behind it all. He betrayed us. He wanted the books for himself.”

  Rammas knew his only hope was to kill Sarn. It was himself against an unbeatable foe. Perhaps, Rammas reasoned, luck would be with him. He had to smile a little at the thought.

  As Rammas reached for his dagger and Sarn’s hand touched the stone, the ground beneath them began to tremble. Rammas was surprised by the sudden quake. He gathered his wits. The time had come; he m
ust kill Sarn this very moment—or all would be lost. Rammas grasped his blade tightly as he struggled to maintain his footing, and lunged at the assassin.

  “You are too late, Rammas!” Sarn shouted.

  “We all are!”

  24

  SARN LASHED OUT.

  The thundering pulse continued to reverberate beneath the surface as he rolled to his side and threw a handful of sand into Rammas’s face. Rammas screamed and clutched at his eyes.

  Malek drew his sword and aimed the point at Marin’s throat. “The books,” he said. “Take them out and throw them in with the others!”

  Marin reached for them, but hesitated. From the other side of the dune, Maroud and Lavvann rushed to her aid, but they were too slow.

  Malek clutched Marin’s hair with his left hand and pressed the blade of his sword against the soft flesh of her throat with the right. His face was twisted in a mad grimace. “Do it now!”

  Marin seized the books.

  A rush of hot air burst out of the well. Malek stood against it. His attention was fixed on Marin. Behind him, Lavvann and Maroud drew nearer. Rammas moaned and wobbled on his knees, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Marin dropped the books on the sand. “You want these four to join the fifth? Here they are! You throw them in!”

  Malek drew his arm back to strike her, but Sarn struck first, and both men fell to the ground in a spray of sand.

  Ghuls rode the hot wind up from the pit and rushed toward the first people they saw: the two men coming to Marin’s aid, Maroud and Lavvann.

  Malek lashed out at Sarn, but his swing was too high, and his blade cut nothing but air. The hilt slipped from his sweating palm. He tried retrieve it, looking around for Sarn. But the assassin had disappeared.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Malek shouted. “I will kill Marin first, and then I will kill you!”

  At that moment, he heard movement behind him. He turned just as Sarn thrust his sword at his face.

  His scream was cut off abruptly as the point of the sword rammed through his open mouth and out the back of his head.