Nomad's Dream

by August Li

  “I should have known it would be you.”

  “Is it so surprising?” Janan struggled to keep his voice calm and even. “Is this not my home as much as yours? My legacy?”

  Ma’shal curled his lip like he tasted something bitter. “You forfeited that legacy long ago.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “No, I don’t,” Janan persisted. “I truly want to understand. We’re brothers, and surely we loved each other once. I want to understand what I’ve done that could’ve driven that love from your heart and replaced it with this level of hatred.”

  Ma’shal took a few steps closer and stopped with his chest only a few inches from Janan’s. “Everything you do disgraces our family, our long and proud line. You have the blood of Salah al-Din in your veins! Yet instead of protecting our values and our way of life as he did, you soil them. You should be defending our faith, but instead you are the infidel!”

  “No.” Janan shook his head. “I love our faith, and learning the beliefs of others has only made me love it more, made me realize how everyone can be included, and even if they’re not, we can still extend the hand of friendship. Ma’shal, the world is changing, and some of those changes are good.”

  “Changes that take women outside their destined roles? That allow heretics to work alongside the righteous?” Ma’shal flushed and practically gagged, looking ready to vomit. “This company should be mine! It should have always been mine. You expect me to follow you and Nawra? Be content with your scraps?”

  “Yes,” Janan said softly. “What you’re describing is simply people connecting despite their differences. Working together and not taking more than they need, so others can have a share.” It was black as night outside. Orange and blue light strobed, the electricity—magic?—in the air making Janan’s arm hair stand on end. In the distance, he heard the staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire. “Can you try to consider that?”

  “That you can even try to justify the life you’ve led tells me everything I need to know about you. I’m through letting this stain continue to infect our proud heritage. You should’ve stayed in Qena, or with that Bedouin….” Realization sparked in Ma’shal’s eyes. “He’s here. You wouldn’t have come alone. Where is he?”

  Ma’shal headed toward the study door, but Janan intercepted him.

  “Out of my way!” Ma’shal raised his hand to strike Janan, but Janan lifted his staff and blocked the blow. Ma’shal swore when his hand struck the wood, and with a howl of rage, he lunged, tackling Janan to the floor and knocking the wind from his chest. Janan’s staff clattered from his hand and out of reach, and he raised his arms to shield his face from his brother’s punches. When he could, he delivered a blow of his own to Ma’shal’s ribs.

  No matter what, he had to buy time.

  FROM WHERE he crouched behind one of the tall shelves, Isra heard thunder, gunshots, Janan arguing with his brother, then scuffling. Gouts of flame and splinters of lightning streaked past the window, and rain beat the glass. He had to ignore it. Everyone was counting on him to find whatever Ma’shal had used to enslave the marid. Her liberation was their only chance of success—of survival for those Isra loved most.

  He stood, took a deep breath, and pushed all thoughts of their current predicament from his mind, entering a relaxed but perceptive state something like his dreams. Something told him it would help, so he followed his instincts. The study was dark now, somber, and at the edges of his mind, Isra sensed a slight hum of power. When he looked around, some of the artifacts had a slight sparkle along the edges—faint and gold like the edge of a knife catching sunlight. Actually, many of the objects produced that glow—too many for it to indicate what he sought.

  He understood these things were old, and while they held some kind of enchantment, it wasn’t the kind he needed. He moved methodically down each row of shelves, along each wall, examining every object closely. As he did, he caught differences in the kinds of energy each reflected: in the case of the painted bowls, a warm sensation caused a grainy taste in his throat; the illuminated manuscript mounted behind glass had a mineral taste like licking a stone; the dagger with the jeweled handle—a crescent-shaped ruby prominent on the pommel—and serpentine blade just felt red and hungry. Something told Isra it had come from very far away, and he eagerly moved away from it.

  Nothing tasted of the sea, women’s magic, or iron chains.

  Though it got harder by the minute to ignore the sounds of chaos outside, Isra made another careful trip through the room, pushing his growing panic to the periphery of his mind. He hated all this clutter—a whole room just for objects, not people. But one of these items was the one he needed, and as soon as he found it, he could put an end to all of this. The people he cared about would be out of danger. Yet no painting, architectural fragment, old tool, or statue exuded the energy he sought. Either the item he needed wasn’t here… or he just couldn’t find it.

  Out in the hall, something metallic crashed and echoed. Thunder seemed to surround the grand house, booming constantly and shaking the walls, making the windows quiver in their frames. The sound almost drowned out the fire of automatic weapons, but not quite. When Isra heard Flicker scream, he made a decision: he might not be able to use whatever latent magic he possessed, but he could still do everything in his power to protect his friends. He certainly couldn’t cower in here while Flicker, and possibly Sehrish and Nawra, fought for their lives.

  Isra hurried to a sword displayed against lush blue velvet. It had an ivory pommel with gold details and a gold-plated cross guard. Isra recognized the distinct forked-tongue blade: his clan had a weapon like this, one that had been passed down from patriarch to patriarch for almost a thousand years. His people had used swords like these to defend their lands from the infidels during the Crusades.

  He buried his face in the bend of one arm and used his opposite elbow to shatter the glass. As soon as he closed his hand around the hilt, he knew this had been the sword of a righteous man, a man who fought not for glory or out of hatred for the Christians, but to protect his family and people. Isra sensed a purity and determination in the weapon’s energy, and as he took it and sprinted into the hall, he hoped it would serve him as it had its original owner.

  About a dozen feet from the front entrance, Ma’shal lay on his side, unconscious, a brass urn near his head and his hands bound with the shemagh he’d been wearing. Janan crouched nearby, his hand held to his mouth to catch the blood that had already spattered his kaftan.

  Isra offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

  Janan shook his head. “The stubborn ass gave me no choice. He wouldn’t even consider what I had to say. He attacked me.” Janan’s eyes went to the sword. “Is that…? You found it?”

  Isra flailed against the guilt and sense of failure threatening to swallow him. “No. I-I couldn’t find the item we need. But I couldn’t stand by any longer. The others need any help we can give them.”

  “Agreed.” Janan picked up his staff.

  Outside, the rain struck them like needles as they ran toward the back gardens and the gunfire, lightning, and eruptions of flame. They passed a few of Ma’shal’s mercenaries, either unconscious or dead.

  The grounds behind the house were a swamp, water reaching past Isra’s ankles and the waves striking the fence and rushing beneath it, carving deep furrows in the soil and carrying away chunks of sod.

  Flicker faced the marid, his bright wings extended two dozen feet beyond his shoulders and burning through the crushing gloom. He flitted back and forth, striking with his luminous whip when he had an opening. But Isra could tell that Flicker wasn’t trying to do damage; he just wanted to keep the marid’s attention, keep her focused on him. He still depended on Isra to find the item.

  A burst of gunfire drew Isra’s attention, and he turned just in time to see Sehrish poke her head above the wall of a gazebo. She’d somehow gotten ahold of one of the rifles, and she wasn’
t alone—Nawra also leaned around a vine-covered column and fired, her soaked hajib plastered to her head and dirt streaking her face.

  From a copse of palm trees across the lawn, one of the black-clad guards returned fire. Chunks of wood, stone, and vegetation flung from the gazebo where his bullets struck. One of the women—Nawra, Isra thought—shrieked, and Janan’s eyes went wide. “I’ll put a stop to this.”

  Before Isra could stop him, he ran toward the mercenary’s hideout behind the trees. Isra could only pray the element of surprise would work in Janan’s favor, that the little he’d been able to impart about sneaking up on animals would be enough to allow Janan to prevail.

  But even if it did, what would they do? Escape? That seemed their only option, and Isra had no other plan. He’d do his best to gather everyone and get away from the marid. First he’d try to make his way to the women. Hopefully the three of them could hold the djinn’s attention long enough for Flicker to get away.

  He’d have to trust that Janan could handle himself and would be able to join them.

  Just as he was about to make his desperate sprint, pain seared across his back from one shoulder to the other. Isra screamed and spun around to face a mercenary holding a nasty serrated combat knife. The man, older, whip-thin, and with a deeply lined face and thick mustache, swiped for Isra again, but Isra’s instincts kicked in and he stepped back, avoiding the blade. Thrown off-balance, the mercenary pitched forward and slipped on the wet grass. Isra kicked out, catching him in the chest and sending him flying backward with a splash. Isra knew he couldn’t turn his back on this man again, and he gripped the sword tightly, prepared to use the pommel to knock the other man out. As Isra raised his hand, the man jabbed the knife toward his ribs. To protect himself, Isra reflexively brought his weapon down. The mercenary screamed as the sword struck his forearm. Blood welled, but since Isra had put no real force behind the blow, the cut couldn’t have been deep—the man didn’t even drop his knife.

  The mercenary moved fast—up into a crouch, and then barreling his shoulders into Isra’s knees, taking Isra off his feet. In the seconds of disorientation, as Isra willed the ringing from his head and forced air into his lungs, the mercenary straddled him.

  As the knife came toward his face, Isra reacted. He swung his right arm in an arc, driving the forked point of the old sword into the mercenary’s side as hard as he could. He felt when it hit bone, felt the resistance abate as it slid past. The mercenary screamed, blood shooting from his mouth, and toppled on his side. Red stained the water around him, spreading fast as Isra scrambled to his feet. He was muddy and soaked, but he’d forgotten his own wound in the struggle. The pain had ebbed to a dull throb, and he could only hope that meant the cut wasn’t deep.

  He made it to the gazebo and vaulted over the wall, though he slipped on the wet cobalt tiles and ended up sprawled on his back again. Nawra helped him to sit while Sehrish kept her rifle pointed at the copse of trees.

  Nawra nodded toward the sword. “Is that it?”

  “No. I couldn’t find what we need.”

  The fear and disappointment in her eyes hurt worse than the mercenary’s blade, and Isra found it harder to ignore.

  “What are we going to do?” Nawra sounded close to panic.

  “Stay calm,” Sehrish instructed without looking back at them. “We’ll have to withdraw. We don’t have another option. It looks like your brother has taken care of that last mercenary, so that works in our favor. We just have to get Flicker away from that thing, and then we make for the garage and hopefully another vehicle.”

  “What if we can’t start another vehicle?” Nawra shouted. “They could’ve been damaged… the water—”

  “Then we’ll come up with another plan.” Sehrish’s calm astounded Isra. “I need your help to get your brother to safety. I can’t do it alone, and we can’t save everyone unless I can count on you. Can I count on you, Nawra?”

  Nawra’s demeanor changed instantly. She sat up straighter and pressed her lips into a thin line. “Yes.”

  “I knew I could,” Sehrish said. “Now take a deep breath and focus. I’ve been in situations like this before, and I’ve walked away. That’s exactly what’s going to happen this time too. Just pay attention to my voice and be ready. This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to lay down fire on that thing, and we’re going to aim for the feet and legs. Now we’re going to take our time and make our shots count, because Isra’s going out there to get Flicker. Okay?”

  “Let’s do it,” Isra said.

  “Initiate contact with the sheikh too,” Sehrish continued. “Yell, wave, or do whatever you can to communicate to him what we’re planning. But don’t wait. Get Flicker and run for the garage. The sheikh’s no fool. He’ll follow.”

  “All right.” He patted Nawra’s shoulder. “Just don’t shoot me.”

  She forced a laugh. “I’ll try not to, but I just learned how to use a gun an hour ago.”

  “No time to waste,” Sehrish urged.

  The women took position on either side of the steps leading into the gazebo, and Isra exited between them.

  Flicker was circling the marid’s head, probably twenty feet above them, poking at her face, flicking his whip, and generally being a nuisance. She roared with frustration and swatted at him, but Flicker dove in an arc, his bare belly almost grazing the water before he arched back up, beat his wings, and rose into the air to encircle the other djinn’s wrist with his glowing whip. She shrieked, and steam rose from her body.

  Sehrish and Nawra took that opportunity to begin their own assault. They stayed to their plan and fired at the marid’s legs. Isra was close enough now to see the bullets enter the marid’s clear flesh and slow when they hit the water inside her. Some emerged from the other side; others remained suspended in the liquid. Almost as soon as they hit, the holes the bullets left sealed, though a few rivulets escaped the openings and the marid diminished slightly.

  She also turned her attention toward the gazebo and extended a hand toward it. Lightning struck the roof, and it caught fire despite the driving rain.

  Flicker alighted next to Isra, the handle of his whip held in both hands. He gritted his teeth as he put all his weight behind it, trying to pull the marid down.

  More gunfire struck the blue djinn’s thigh, and with her free hand, she swung and a fan of water ripped through the gazebo, tearing through the timbers. The roof skidded across the lawn, leaving Sehrish and Nawra exposed.

  As he hoped they would, the two women ran from the gazebo, Sehrish’s arm draped over Nawra’s shoulders—she was hurt. The marid had lifted her free hand to strike again.

  They wouldn’t survive a direct hit from a crescent of water with that much force behind it.

  Isra turned to Flicker. “Get Janan and get to the garage.”

  “Isra, no!”

  But Isra wasn’t listening. The last time they’d faced this thing, he’d been the only one to harm her. The others shouldn’t have to perish because he couldn’t locate the magical item, and he didn’t want to live if something happened to any one of them. With both hands, he lifted the sword above his head, ran, and bellowed out all his anger and frustration.

  When he reached the marid, Isra hacked down, opening a gash in her shin. Sidestepping to avoid the water that poured out, Isra swung again, this time cutting across her opposite ankle. She shrieked and the rain tapered off, as if she couldn’t spare the strength to compel it. Flicker pulled with his whip as Isra kept slicing and chopping, and amazingly, they brought the enormous djinn to her knees. Isra panted, his lungs screaming for air, his muscles quivering from the exertion. But God in his mercy seemed inclined to let them succeed—they could beat this thing, and he couldn’t give up.

  A ragged cry tore from his throat as he stabbed into the marid’s thigh, her hip, up into her belly from beneath….

  But just as quickly as they’d gained the upper hand, the tide turned against them. A huge wave crashed through the fence,
knocking Flicker off his feet. His whip sizzled out. As soon as her hand was free, the marid swatted Isra, and it felt like running full speed into a stone wall. His back struck the twisted remains of the iron fence, and he slid down, unable to fight through the pain. He ended up slouched almost prone, trying desperately to get a grip on the fence to pull himself out of the tide rushing over him, knowing he’d drown if he failed.

  But the water was so heavy, and his body wouldn’t obey. A wave broke over him, smearing everything to a gray-green, and when it receded, Isra sucked in as much air as he could. He didn’t know how long he lay there trying to breathe enough to stay alive between breakers.

  He also didn’t know the marid’s jeweled and shell-encrusted fist was barreling toward him until an umbrella of flame bloomed over him, with Flicker standing in the center and struggling to push back against the other djinn.

  “Run!” Flicker yelled.

  Isra wasn’t leaving him, but he didn’t have the strength to argue. He patted around in the filthy water for his sword, and remarkably, he found it. Then, summoning all of his willpower, he got to his feet and met Flicker’s gaze. “I’m just a mortal. There are millions of me. You’re… you’re unique. You have to live. Help—” He coughed, and it felt like hacking up glass. “Help another like me one day. Be their friend. That’s the way to honor me.”

  Without waiting for a response, he ran for the glittering blue column—the marid’s leg. He lifted his sword, but it seemed so much heavier, and when he struck, he didn’t even break skin.

  Then gray flooded in at the edges of his vision, and his knees gave out.

  He was barely aware of strong arms closing around his waist or dragging him through the froth and debris. Yet encircled by that warmth, he felt sheltered and let the tension bleed out of his body.