Ia shuddered but rode away to round up a couple of the older guards. She sent them to help Tarn, and they set to the grim search in silence, piling up the cold but still shuddering bodies beside the road. By the time they lit the pyre, it was shoulder-high.
When Tarn got back to the main caravan, smeared in soot, he was furious. Everything he had been able to discern about the dead traders told him that they had been experienced desert travelers. They would have been part of his new hoard, but they had died before he could ever spread his wings over them in protection. He had once roused up the whole of humankind, and every sympathetic spirit, to fight against this very horror. Had it all been for nothing?
He went straight to the chirurgeon’s wagon, but Ellia was still unconscious. Jancis was kneeling beside her, and she looked up as he leaned in, her dark eyes wide and wet.
“How bad?” Tarn asked, his heart growing cold. He would never grow used to losing his friends, no matter how many millennia he lived.
“Broken ribs and a concussion,” Jancis said and rubbed at her eyes. “Tal s-says we won’t know until she w-wakes….”
He could do nothing but put his arms around her and pat her back when she cried. He had never known anything of medicine. He could be a friend, though, so he kissed the top of her head and murmured, “Be brave for her, my treasure. Be brave.”
They drew the wagons into a tight circle before evening, setting torches in an outer ring to guard their backs. It was a flimsy hope, Tarn could have told them, but he remembered the importance of morale and stayed his tongue.
“What were those things?” was the first question thrown at Sethan. “Were they human?”
Sethan looked across the circle, his usually controlled face showing signs of exhaustion. “Tarn, my lovely barbarian, you’re our expert.”
Suddenly feeling a lot less sorry for him, Tarn gathered his thoughts. Regretfully, he decided to make an effort tonight. He had been hiding behind his slow accent too long, enjoying the privacy he won through being a man of little words. He had the language in his grasp now, though, and there were too many frightened people in this circle who could barely understand his mountain accent.
“They are called revenants,” he said, standing forward. He saw the ripple of surprise run through his audience at the sudden crispness of his voice and looked down, not wanting to meet their reproachful gaze. “Once they lived, but no more. They remember nothing of their former lives. They are shells full of rage and hunger, ripped out of death by foul spells.”
“How do you know that?” This voice was frightened and belligerent.
“The same way I know that only beheading or crushing their skulls will stop them. The same way I know that they do not fear fire, but will be crippled by it.”
Everyone was quiet now, leaning forward toward him. He remembered suddenly that they were not supposed to know his true nature, and dissembled. “In the war against the Shadow, the hoard of the King of Tarn Amel fought against them. You would call those same men Drake Clan, in this age.”
“That’s a legend,” Jirell cried. She was curled up beside one of the twins, their hands entwined. “There are no such things as dragons!”
“I have seen dragons,” Tarn said. “Many of them. They sleep.”
“But…,” Jirell started. “But if this is some horror from their war, why are they still sleeping? If they do exist.” She shook her head. “Why is this happening here? The desert has always been a good place.”
“Jiri, my sweet,” Sethan said. “Many ancient spirits have been waking. There was never any guarantee they were all going to be benign.”
“But Alagard has always been good to human traders. Even those he tricks away get returned unharmed.” Jirell’s chin was up, ready to argue.
“Alagard no longer rules the desert,” Tarn said flatly. “It is empty and ripe for conquest.”
“Is that what this is?” Barrett asked. “A war between spirits? How can we survive that?”
“We have a choice,” Sethan said. “We’re two days out of Istel, but that means pushing deeper into the desert. Or we turn back for the north and hope our supplies last.”
“There’s a storm building,” Cayl said quietly. “A full sandstorm will slow us, whichever choice we make.”
He was right. The wind was rushing past their little circle now. Tarn could hear the patter of sand against canvas as it smacked into the wagons, and sudden gusts of it crept through and over, smattering everyone with dust.
Later that night, when the vote had narrowly gone for riding on, he stood his watch between two torches, his sword bare in his hand, its sigils shimmering. Dit stood to one side, between the next pair of torches, and Eryl to the other. They did not speak to each other.
But as the wind rose, it began to moan and howl around the dunes. At first, it was just the wuthering of the wind, but it took on a steadily more human note, a low sobbing that grew into wails and then screams before it sank to sobs again.
“Is it them?” Dit breathed, hands tight on his swords. He still bore scratches and bruises from earlier, but his jaw was set and his shoulders steady.
“No,” Tarn told him. He recognized that voice. “It’s the desert. Alagard is screaming.”
And they said nothing more until morning, although the cries of the desert throbbed around them through the sand-darkened night.
Chapter 8: Sheltering
THE SCREAMING continued as they set out the next morning through the haze of sand, only the pitch and volume varying. The sand grew thicker, and Tarn, Eryl and one of the other mages rode along the line to set colored witch lights at the front and back of each wagon.
Midway through the afternoon, Sethan called a halt. By then, everyone who could get into a wagon was inside and lashing the doors closed as tightly as possible to keep the sand out. The guards riding watch were so wrapped against the wind that they would barely be able to lift their swords against an attack, and their faces were covered with layers of brown dust.
“We need to get the storm covers out,” Sethan yelled into the wind. “Bring the wagons into the tightest circle possible—at least two rings, three if possible.”
It took a while, as the horses struggled against the sand whipping around their feet, but as soon as the first ring of wagons was in place, the more experienced traders started hauling out extra canvas. Within an hour, they were locked into a dim, canvas-roofed world, with the gaps between the outermost wagons sealed too, and the sand already filling up the spaces underneath.
Tarn couldn’t hear the screaming desert so clearly in here, though the sound still ripped at his heart. Brushing sand off his face, he made his way over to where Ia and Sethan were waiting in the central ring.
“How long can we stay here before our supplies run out?” he asked.
Sethan looked grim. “Not my foremost worry.”
“The canvas can only hold so much weight,” Ia explained. “Too much sand settling up there, and it’ll all come down on us. That’s a bad way to go.”
“Especially as we’ll likely be coming back to gnaw on the next travelers who pass by,” Cayl added gloomily.
“Do try not to repeat that in anyone’s hearing, dearest,” Sethan said sourly.
With nothing else to do, Tarn went to sit with Ellia, sending Jancis away to change her clothes and wipe her face. He sat in the dim quiet, hearing the canvas creak overhead, and held her small, strong hand.
“At least, if we do get buried, she won’t know,” Jancis whispered, slipping back in. “She won’t have to feel it.”
“That won’t happen,” Tarn said, but the wind was screaming agony again, and he didn’t even convince himself. He began to imagine it, the first shudder and dip of the canvas, the bursting seams, the trickle of sand turning into a flood as people ran and screamed.
He would be safe himself, he supposed. He couldn’t imagine a sand drift big enough to bury his true form.
He thought about that again and shot to his fe
et. Jancis, half dozing at the side of the bed, blinked at him, looking startled. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just going out,” he said, trying to sound calm. “I won’t be long.”
He took the image of her worried face with him as he slipped between the wagons.
What was the point of keeping his presence secret if he lost his new hoard in the process?
He pressed between two of the outermost wagons, feeling the piled sand slip under his feet.
“Tarn?”
He turned to see Barrett leaning between the wagons. Even in the dim light, Tarn could see the concerned expression on his face. He held out his hand gently. “Don’t do that, friend. It’s not that bad.”
“I have to stop the sand,” Tarn growled impatiently. He didn’t have time for this.
Barrett stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “It’s just storm madness, Tarn. Stay with the rest of us. Don’t waste your life.”
“I will not waste yours,” Tarn said. “Don’t stop me.”
“There’s nothing we can do now,” Barrett said. “Live or die, it is in the hands of the gods.”
Tarn shook his head, irritated. He was older than mere human gods, and had never had much faith in their power. What were they but less communicative nature spirits? “You are protected, Barrett. You are under the dragon’s wing.”
“Ah, that’s just a saying, Tarn.” He smiled wryly. “Besides, the dragons never got south of Hirah.”
“This was an ocean then,” Tarn said, remembering the glitter of the sea from above. “It had its own protectors.” Where had the merfolk gone when the sea dried up?
Barrett closed his hand on Tarn’s wrist, and tugged at him gently. “Come back to the fire.”
“I cannot,” Tarn said and considered his options. Barrett was sweet and scholarly, no physical threat, but he did not wish to hurt him. Could he be cruel? It was an open secret that Barrett was in love with Dit, just waiting for him to still his restless feet. Jealousy might drive him away.
He couldn’t lower himself that far, though. A good man didn’t deserve that. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed Barrett lightly, gathering strength from the warm startled lips under his. “Go to your lover, and give each other comfort. This battle is mine.”
“Tarn….”
“You belong to the hoard of Tarn Amel, every one of you, and I am keeper of the hoard. I will keep you safe.”
Barrett’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t try to stop Tarn this time, merely watched him back away and unlace the canvas between the wagons.
As soon as Tarn crawled out, the wind caught him, shoving him off-balance. The world glowed as red as blood as the sand tore at his face and clothes. Not even trying to stand, he crawled forward, counting each time he moved his hands, trying to get enough distance from the caravan to change form without crushing them. He counted three thousand lurches forward before he dared stop.
The air was full of roaring, sand rasping against sand, but he could hear the screams clearly through it. It sickened him, but he couldn’t help Alagard right now. His human hoard must come first.
The transformation came slowly, fighting against the wind as he held himself together by sheer will. His human form caught fire in slow flares and then dissolved into flame, spreading and burning through the whirling sand in one great and fearsome conflagration until his true form coalesced, air and fire contained by stone-hard scales.
He roared at the storm as it bore down on him again. Now he could feel the malice in it, and the great tortured despair of Alagard. The spirit was in the wind, his power driving it, but he was not in control. In this form the dragon could feel every moment of defiance, every desperate lunge for freedom.
He pulled his attention away with fierce determination. Humans first, desert next.
The outline of the caravan barely showed through the scarlet haze. The dragon moved carefully, shifting his body round so the greater bulk of him was between them and the wind. Carefully, he curled his tail around the leeward side.
The sand was heavy on the top canvas, layered and clinging. Now that he had blocked the wind from them, he could see more clearly, and so he drew breath and blew across the canvas, making it surge and ripple.
The sand shifted away, caught on the roiling wind, and he whipped his neck round to seal the circle, spreading his wing to roof the little ring of wagons.
Already the sand was piling against his side, scouring off two thousand years of dust and dirt. The last traces of the forest went slapping into the wind, and then the thick crusts of lichen and fungus that had covered him were scrubbed away.
It was a pleasant itch for now, though he knew it would not stay that way.
The wind came back full force, hurling sand and fury at his flanks. Grimly, the dragon tightened his coil, sealing off the caravan from the full fury of the storm.
Then, because he did not want to endure this alone, he snaked his head between the canvas walls, curling his neck over the caravans that were almost as large as his head, pressing up the canvas until it strained against his spines, and peered into the central circle. Under the shelter of his wing, it was so dark and stifling that the only light was the dim flicker of the central fire.
As he shoved forward, he heard screams and cries of alarm. In the darkness, it was hard to see what was happening, but he caught a glimpse of Dit with his swords out and Jancis in the mouth of the healer’s wagon, her bow drawn. They were all running toward a threat, his beautiful, foolish hoard, and he loved them for it.
He didn’t want them wasting or ruining weapons, though, not when so many strange dangers gathered around them. Keeping his voice soft and slow, he rumbled, “Hold.”
He didn’t think they’d listen, but then he heard Ia repeat it, her voice hoarse.
Barrett was in the central circle, peering over Cayl’s shoulder with blanched cheeks. The dragon turned his gaze that way, noting the way the light changed as he shifted his head slightly, the shadows illuminated by the fires that burned behind his eyes, making them glow like gold.
“You lie under my wing, did I not tell you?” he rumbled.
Barrett swallowed, his eyes going rounder, and then stammered, “T-tarn?”
“Oh, fuck, no!” Ia spat, while everyone else still looked bewildered, and she stomped forward and shoved her sword away to cross her arms. “Spellsword out of Amel, my hairy ass!”
“Ia?” Sethan was there too, next to Cayl with every line in his body taut and tense.
She ignored him to step forward, gazing up into the dragon’s eyes, a tiny, frail, indomitable figure. Then she slammed her clenched fist against her breast and said, “Hail to ye, Tarnamell, first among kings.”
It was an old greeting, though the words had been warped over the centuries, and he replied to it formally, “Hail to thee, Daughter of Myrtilis, bright wand in battle.”
She continued to gaze up at him, and for a moment she looked very young, eyes bright with wonder. Then the storm went screaming overhead, rasping against the tough skin of his wings, and her expression hardened again. Before she could express her opinion, the dragon said, as humbly as he could manage, “I did not share all the truth with you.”
“You don’t say?” she snapped. No fear in this one, for all he could have swallowed her effortlessly.
“Ia,” Barrett whispered. “Should you really be talking to the extremely large dragon king quite like that?”
“I’ll talk to whomever I want however I want,” Ia snapped back and then looked back up at the dragon. “So, how much trouble are we in?”
“The storm is not natural,” he told her.
Now at last, Sethan stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was cold and precise, and his face was blank. “That much we surmised. Are we the targets of this or are you?”
“In human form, none can find me,” the dragon told him. “They would not have looked my way, and would not have found me if they searched every wagon to pass across the desert. The Sha
dow would not think I had business in the desert.”
“And now?” Sethan demanded, his lips thin.
The dragon sighed, making the canvas billow and the fire leap like a startled deer. “Now, yes, but I lie between you and the storm. Would you have me move?”
“And what price will we pay for your help?” Cayl asked, speaking for the first time. “In my experience, great spirits do not give kindnesses freely.”
“Fear not,” the dragon said. “For you are mine, and under my protection, whether you desire it or not.”
Cayl went paler, but Ia held up her hand. “After the storm, boys. Tarn—”
“That is a mortal name.”
“Well, you’ve been using it, so you’ll have to cope. Can we stop the storm? Turn the wind away?”
The scouring of the sand was beginning to switch from a pleasant rub to a painful itch. It made the dragon consider paths he did not wish to tread. “The storm is driven by the spirit of Alagard—”
“The desert turned against us?” Ia protested.
“He is enslaved by the Shadow,” the dragon told them. “He acts against his will. Can you not hear his guilt?”
“Seems to me,” Ia said, as easily as if she was talking to his human form, “that the storm won’t stop until the spirit stops moving it. You knew how to bind a spirit—how about freeing this one? If nothing else, I reckon he’s pretty mad by now, and it might be nice to have a grateful and angry desert on our side.”
“Lying here, far from the source of this spell, I can only free him by binding him myself,” the dragon said.
“So do it,” Ia snapped, glaring up at him. “Preferably before we’re all buried alive.”
“Take his freedom?” the dragon questioned. “When he has already been much abused? It is an affront to his honor.”
“Can you undo this binding tomorrow?” Barrett asked shyly. He was staring at the dragon with quiet wonder, his fingers twitching in the air as if he craved a pen.
“This I do not know,” the dragon admitted. “Such things are against the Laws of Amel, that bound us of old.”
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