In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  Sarn pulled the sword back, and Emir Malek fell dead.

  25

  SARN SNEERED.

  He watched Malek tumble down the dune and come to rest in a widening pool of dark red.

  The thunder of galloping hooves brought him his senses. Outof the east in a cloud of sand and dust rode a massed company of horsemen. They wore long, flowing white garments, their heads and some of their faces completely covered. Sarn recognized them. The White Palm.

  Marin and the others drew together in a defensive circle. As the riders drew nearer, the ghuls encircled the opening, pursuing anything human. Despite the danger, Sarn appreciated the irony of the invaders’ timing.

  The ghuls were fiendish creatures. Each had the muscular body of a strong man, with large, pointed ears and razor-sharp teeth like those of a wolf, easily capable of tearing a victim apart. Their fingers and toes ended in long, curved claws—talons so sharp that one blow could slice open a man’s belly. They walked on two feet, yet with an animal-like gait, capable of covering a great distance with each stride.

  The ghuls roared through the chaos in pursuit of Lavvann and Maroud. One of the demons broke off from the chase to maul Rammas, who was still on his knees, blinded. Blood and entrails splattered the ground around his body. The ghul tore his head from his neck and tossed it aside, abandoning it in search of other prey.

  Sarn sidestepped Rammas’ corpse, caught up in the frantic battle. The ghuls were relentless; they had no capacity for mercy.

  Sarn struggled to find Marin and the others. He heard a dying man beg in a gurgling whisper, “Please… kill… me…”

  Sarn paused and glanced back at the fallen badawh, who was convulsing in agony. Sarn thrust his blade through the man’s eye.

  Better to die quickly, he thought.

  He found the others in the center of the melee, fighting off not only the White Palm and the ghuls, but Haradin as well. Sarn grabbed Marin’s hand and pulled her toward him, beckoning Maroud and Lavvann to follow. They fought their way out of the skirmish and sprinted toward Sarn and Marin.

  The three of them followed the assassin with the battle raging all around them. They would not be safe until every single oneof their enemies had been slain. With weapons and cunning, they launched a counterattack.

  “This way!” Sarn said.

  Marin stumbled, spun to her right, and almost fell. She regained her balance quickly and managed to get her feet moving again, but when she looked up, Sarn was nowhere to be seen.

  He was gone.

  26

  MARIN RAN.

  She strained to reach the top of a sand dune. There was a sound like an eruption from beneath the desert. Suddenly a ghul was there, slavering, its mouth a wicked maw of razor-sharp teeth. It lunged toward her.

  “The ghuls are bound to us!” Marin realized this even as Sarn yelled the words.

  Marin did not see Sarn nock the arrow, but she saw the bolt sink into the ghul’s face—piercing it just below the nose. Just as the demon fell, a second ghul grabbed Sarn from behind and tossed him high in the air. He landed hard, his leg bent awkwardly behind him.

  Marin realized she was about to die, and wondered briefly if her life had meant anything. She took a step back as yet another ghul advanced on her. Out of the corner of her eye, where Sarn had landed, she saw movement; Sarn was still alive. Had she failed to avenge the life of her husband? Would she see him in paradise? She closed her eyes and waited for the worst.

  It never came.

  She opened her eyes to see the demon sprawled on the sand, its eyes wide open, mouth dripping blood, lifeless.

  Marin went over to where Sarn lay broken. His breathing was labored and shallow. “When I realized you were no longer behind

  me… I came… to find you,” he rasped.

  Sarn had saved her life. She had not expected that she would be indebted to him. It would have been better if the ghul had killed her, or killed them both. At least then she could be reunited in death with Hiril—and she would no longer be tortured by the dilemma of whether Sarn deserved life or death.

  “Forgive… me,” Sarn whispered.

  “You ask too much,” Marin said, tears welling in her eyes. She knelt beside him. “Are you blind to all that you have done?”

  Sarn said nothing, but the look on his face told her everything.

  Marin was sobbing. “You took from me my life… my future… my love.”

  She looked for a reply, but did not really expect one. Tears that she had repressed for a long time began to flow.

  “Hiril was my love, my reason for living. You murdered him in cold blood and left me to pick up the pieces of my life. I vowed that I would find and kill you.”

  He remained silent.

  “My intentions have always been to kill you… not to offer forgiveness.”

  Sarn gasped for breath.

  Marin sighed through her tears. “And now,” she went on, “you have been betrayed by your own failings rather than by my designs. This may sound strange, but you have relieved me of a terrible burden. You see, while it is no longer in my heart to kill you, neither is it there to forgive you.” She paused. “So I will simply walk away, and I will let you die.” He would soon come to know just how his victims had suffered before they died, she thought.

  Marin stood, turned, and left him there.

  27

  MARIN RETURNED to the capstone.

  She scavenged the battleground, filling a discarded pack with rations. She also grabbed several waterskins that had fallen during the fight. A lone horse remained, bloodied, but alive and uninjured. Marin looked up at the suns. Could she make back to the oasis?

  Next she tore strips of bloodied cloth from the hem of her garment and tied them around two swords. On a dried palm frond she wrote a brief message and buried it under a few inches of sand next to the swords. If Maroud or Lavvann had survived, either or both would surely return. In any event, she hoped someone she knew would find her message sign and retrieve the note:

  Rammas has fallen, so too Malek. Sarn I left to die.

  Marin then found her comrade and, exhausted and sore as she was, did her best to bury him. It might not have been proper, but it was respectful under the circumstances. She placed some of his belongings in the saddlebag with the food and remounted.

  Ciris Sarn was nowhere to be seen. She looked out across the endless expanse of desert and suddenly felt overwhelmed. Self-doubt and pity pierced her heart. Somewhere out there in the sea of sand lay the assassin, his body broken, dying. He might already be dead. And Marin had left him.

  Her thoughts turned to the Books of Promise. Where were they now? And if Sarn died, would the sha’ir suddenly appear?

  She had no idea how long she waited there, pondering these questions. It didn’t really matter, she concluded. Time had stopped once she’d made the decision to abandon Sarn. And, she realized, she was a different person now.

  Yes, she had undertaken the task for the sole purpose of killing him; in fact, the elation she had expected to feel from therevenge was second only to the satisfaction she would derive from the justice meted out. Or perhaps, she wondered… was it the reverse?

  But she had not known that she could feel such sorrow—the sorrow that weighed on her heart now—for a murderer. Least of all the murderer who had crushed her heart by taking away her reason for living: Hiril. She brushed tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand and took a deep drink of water before spurring her horse on.

  As she rode, her thoughts became more turbulent. How could she simply walk away from a man who had professed his guilt and then atoned for it by saving her life? Was she no better than he?

  No, she could not accept that about herself. Whatever kindness Sarn had shown at the end of his life was completely overshadowed by his many misdeeds. Regardless of his actions just before death, his actions in the past proved that he deserved to die. Such a belief was the equivalent of pardoning a condemned murderer moments before he was s
cheduled to be hanged—because he now shed tears of contrition. No, by then it was not only too late but meaningless as well.

  Ciris Sarn had made a career of killing people. He had done so relentlessly and without remorse. And sometimes those people were innocent. No, Sarn was not a decent man. Once she considered all these things, Marin knew she had made the right—and just—decision.

  I should not have walked away, she thought. It would have been more honorable to thrust my blade through his heart and end his suffering. Yet how many did Sarn cause to suffer before they died by his hand?

  Marin was certain he had not always given his victims that luxury. She was right to walk away.

  Besides, she thought, now the books will forever remain here, hidden, lost. They‘ve caused too much violence and bloodshed already.

  As for Sarn—

  28

  TORRE LAVVANN knew he was fortunate to be alive.

  If Maroud had not been by his side during the battle, he would not have been so blessed. Maroud had saved them by proving he was well versed in the ways of the Haradin and the White Palm.

  The young man had indeed been well trained. Once they escaped the fighting, Maroud instructed Lavvann to follow him to the top of the highest dune they could find. There they stripped and knelt upon the crest, heads bowed and arms crossed. They placed their weapons on the left side and all other possessions on the right.

  Maroud told Lavvann to remain silent in that position of penitence. According to customs held sacred by both sects, those who were about to be killed could plead for mercy. Maroud hoped that when the badawh saw this, their lives would be spared. It was strange lore, to be sure, but Maroud was convinced it would work.

  Two men of the White Palm were the first to spy the men kneeling on the dune. They gave each other a quizzical look before heading up to see why they’d suddenly and so easily acquired two prisoners. Brigands did not usually surrender.

  Maroud spoke to them. Lavvann did as instructed and said nothing. Lavvann did not understand the language, but as he listened and watched the body language of the White Palm badawh, it became evident that they were going to let them live.

  Maroud confirmed this with a whisper. “We will be safe. Don’t worry, Torre. I convinced them that we were here in disguise on behalf of the Rassan Majalis to follow, capture, or kill Ciris Sarn and any others involved with the books.”

  One of the badawh laughed and spoke to Maroud, who joined him in laughter. The badawh spoke to his companion in a tone

  that indicated to Lavvann that all was well.

  Maroud turned to Lavvann. “This man and his partner are White Palm. He told me he is glad that he found us before any of the Haradin did, as we probably would have been sold as slaves—even if they had believed our story.”

  “We are fortunate indeed,” Lavvann murmured.

  Lavvann and Maroud were permitted to find mounts and gather provisions so that they could return to the oasis. In the process of collecting what they needed, Lavvann found the message Marin had left. It reminded him of that other note he had discovered when they were seeking the kayal in Aeíx.

  He thought of how their fate had been altered and wondered if Marin still lived. She had been like a daughter to him. He wished he could have been there when Sarn fell. Did Marin feel as if her loss had been avenged? Lavvann wanted to know the details of what had happened in the desert while he and Maroud were with the White Palm.

  “We need to move,” Lavvann said. “Hopefully Marin will be there. Then we make for Riyyal. I am eager to leave this place behind.”

  Maroud turned to the badawh and spoke again, then turned back to Lavvann. “I asked them if they would be joining us, but they will go their own way. They wish us a safe return.”

  The White Palm riders raced off into the desert. Lavvann stood by his horse and watched them fade into the distance. He drew a deep sigh of relief and absently patted the beast’s neck.

  “I hope I never live to see this again,” he said to Maroud.

  “Most definitely,” Maroud agreed. “I am also glad they left us the camels.”

  Lavvann smiled. “To Waha al-Ribat!”

  29

  THE AIR was cool and alive.

  Marin stood outside the caravanserai. A light breeze caught her robe as she looked outward past the smooth, white stone balustrade that surrounded the building. Tears dried on her cheeks. When she thought of Hiril, she cried again. Sobbing had come all too naturally to her these past two nights.

  “Life is not easy, Marin,” Lavvann said, approaching from behind.

  Startled, she brushed the tears from her face and turned. “Torre! You’re here! Where is… “

  “It was easy enough to find you,” Lavvann said. “Sallah is well.”

  Marin sniffled.

  Lavvann gave her a warm smile. “You do not need to be ashamed because you are weeping.”

  “I know. I weep for Hiril… for not being stronger.”

  “You did what was in your heart. Hiril would not have been ashamed.”

  “Can you tell me what you would have done, Torre?” Marin looked at him earnestly.

  “No, I cannot. But I am a man, and men are different. You did what you believed was right, and it does not make you weak. You are a woman… and I am very proud of you.”

  “I wish now that I had not come. I wish that someone else could have killed Sarn. I will always have doubts, a pain that will forever have a hold on my heart.”

  “It will pass in time.” Lavvann put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh, Torre, already the memory of my husband fades. When I close my eyes I can no longer see him. When I try to recall his voice, I can’t.”

  “You will see him again, Marin. Keep that with you always.

  He is near, and will come to you in your dreams. You will not forget him.”

  Marin wept again.

  30

  THE CALL to morning prayer broke the silence of the dawn. Marin rubbed her right thumb across her left palm as she had done many times since that fateful battle in the desert where the Books of Promise were lost. She felt no lingering effect of the ‘Evil Eye’ curse laid upon her by the sha’ir in Aeíx. The relics must have come to the hag, as well as the soul of Ciris Sarn. Marin shuddered, her thoughts drifting back into the past once again. What have I done? She drove it away from her mind, trying to forget, and hoping someday she would not have to remember.

  She looked out toward the northeast, beyond the clustered roofs and soaring minarets of Janeirah.

  She hoped it was for the last time.

  Marin breathed deeply as the chains of sorrow that had kept her bound to the past finally crumbled away.

  Lavvann had joined her again after returning to the city. “Where will you go now?” he asked.

  “I will follow the coast up to Tanith, and then sail across to Ruinart,” she replied. “There is still good work to be done, and I wish to be a part of it.”

  “Yes, of course. Only you can make that decision.” He paused. “Always remember that a door remains open for you, should you wish to ride with the Four Banners again.”

  “Thank you, Torre. I mean that. You have been like a father to me in many ways, and I will forever remain grateful for all that you have done. And Sallah, too. Please remember this.”

  “There is no need to worry, Marin. For many years I have seen you as a daughter, one of whom I am very proud.” He smiled ather in a way that made her heart swell. It was a smile of sincere joy. Of pride.

  “Go to Ruinart,” he encouraged her. “There is much there for you still—and I am certain you will do great work. Naturally, I will expect a few moments of your time when you are able.” He gave her a broad smile.

  Later that day, Marin, Sallah Maroud, and Torre Lavvann gathered again. Tall trees lined the banks of the emerald waters, bathed in the warmth of the suns. The midday air was mild, welcome relief from the desert heat.

  Marin took stock of herself. On this partic
ular day, she wore a white-fringed shawl about her shoulders. Her skin, kissed golden by the suns, perfectly complemented the long golden locks that had escaped from the haphazard knot at the top of her head.

  It‘s nice to feel clean again, she thought.

  31

  TWO DAYS later, the three companions left Janeirah.

  The great city had long been bound to the river and the sea. Fertile farmlands stretched for miles on either side of the river. To the northwest was a large harbor, one of the most important in all of Nahkeel, second only to Tivisis in size and number of ships.

  Steep streets ran straight down to the harbor. From the summits of these streets could be seen ships of all nations. Along the main thoroughfare, ancient villas and palaces still stood proudly. Marin thought Janeirah was one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

  She had rested here long enough. It was time to leave for Tanith, and then on to Ruinart. She longed to explore the lands she had never seen, and reexamine those she had visited in passing. Then she would secure passage across the Ras Mansour back to Cievv.

  Part of her wanted to get back to her duties, to feel productive again. She needed, in a small way, to feel that she’d contributed not only to her own salvation, but to that of countless others as well. The days of solace by the sea in Janeirah were the cure she needed to make Sarn a permanent part of her past.

  She would go to the marketplace and purchase fine fabrics for a new dress. How long had it been since she had allowed herself that luxury? She could not recall. She had seen beautiful dresses in the cities she’d visited, but now, as she studied the women in the streets, she realized the fashions had changed during the time she’d spent pursuing Sarn; and she had missed it all.

  She would acquire new spices for her pantry, too. She loved to cook, and she looked forward to making a real meal again.

  She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the water and thought, Why am I suddenly interested in all these domestic details?

  Of course she knew why these things suddenly mattered. She was ready to move on, and part of doing so meant nurturing a new relationship. Her love for Hiril would never die—but he would want her to remarry. He had always said she should never stop living simply for him.