Reawakening

by Amy Rae Durreson

  “Now,” Gard continued blithely, “could you persuade your comrade there to stop pointing that arrow at me? I’m feeling a certain itch between my shoulders.”

  “Oh,” said Tarn, then cleared his throat and called, “Jancis, he’s a friend.”

  She lowered her weapon, and Tarn ushered Gard closer. He spoke to Sethan first, because he didn’t want to meet Ia’s eyes. “This is Gard. He will be traveling with us.”

  “Will he?” Cayl said flatly from behind Sethan’s shoulder. “Who’s feeding him?”

  “I need little food,” Tarn said, shrugging. “I can hunt, and he may eat what is put aside for me.” He paused to consider the practicalities a little further. “I have tent space for him to sleep. All we need impose on one of you for is some item of clothing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Gard said brightly. “If it’s going to be an imposition, I’m quite happy to go naked.”

  Tarn spared him a quick glower. “Sand chafes.”

  “Do you see any sand on me?” Gard demanded, holding out his arms and twirling. Tarn could see Dit biting back a smirk, and Sethan looked amused, though most likely at his expense. Then Gard stopped, his grin fading, and he asked thoughtfully, “Why don’t I have any sand on me?”

  “Sand mage,” Tarn told him and turned to Sethan, whose eyebrows were raised. “Amnesiac.”

  “Gard?” Sethan asked deliberately.

  “Yes,” Tarn said and stared back. There was no need to state anything more. “Before the dead rise, shall we move?”

  Chapter 10: Engaging

  SETHAN NODDED sharply and waved to Dit. “You’re about the same size—can you lend Gard something?”

  They moved off slowly, shivering under the cold starry sky. Many of the traders retreated into their wagons to sleep as their partners drove. Others huddled together on the driving seats, wrapped in the same blanket and darting nervous glances at the horizon.

  Tarn rode up and down his and Dit’s stretch of the line, stopping to talk with each of their traders. Some flinched away from him, but he tried to seem as he had before, just a simple hill man, and one or two relaxed.

  Lyson, despite his hunched shoulders, offered to play a little music to raise people’s spirits.

  “That idea I like,” Tarn said. “Let me speak to Ia first, aye?”

  “Definitely don’t want to startle her,” Lyson agreed. He bit back a yawn and then said, a little diffidently, “You guards may be coping with this, but we’re just traveling merchants. We’re in this for the money, not the adventure.”

  “If that were right, you would stay in your counting houses,” Tarn pointed out.

  Lyson actually smiled ruefully. “Well, yes, true, but we’re really not prepared for this level of threat. It would help to have something positive and normal to focus on.”

  “I’ll ask Ia,” Tarn said and beckoned Dit, who was riding up with Gard, now clad in warm leggings and one of Dit’s more gaudy shirts. “Watch the line.”

  “No greeting? Not even for me? How rude.”

  “Well met, Gard,” Tarn said patiently. “Well met, Dit. Good-bye, Gard, Good-bye, Dit. May I now go on with my duties?”

  Gard dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Go, do.” He turned to Lyson as Tarn hesitated. “I, my big friend informs me, am a mage of the sand. Quite what that means, I do not know, but I have discovered a knack for clearing all the sand out of a wagon in a trice, if that would be of service to you.” Then he added, without turning, “I thought you had duties to perform?”

  Tarn rode off, taking care to keep looking stern until he was out of Gard’s sight. Then he allowed himself to chuckle. He had never anticipated his next encounter with the desert would go like this, but it was proving to be very entertaining.

  It was a strangely lovely night, with the moon low, huge and butter bright in the star-strewn sky. The air was cold, with steam rising from the breath of traders, riders, and horses, in silvery clouds lit by the moon. The night was very still, and every creak of a wagon or murmur of voices lay sharply and distinctly against the desert quiet.

  They were traveling with the heart of the desert made flesh, and he was free to love his home again. The night was bound to bless them.

  By the time Tarn reached Ia, he was whistling one of the low, lilting laments his army had sung around the fires under Eyr, remembering the heroes of days long ago, men whose names were only marked in song and memory, never set to paper.

  Ia, riding beside Sethan, gave him an unimpressed stare. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “When am I not?” Tarn inquired, grinning at her, and she snorted.

  “Don’t show your teeth, man. It unnerves people. What do you want?”

  “Lyson thinks music would lift spirits.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Sethan?”

  “Excellent idea.” He bestowed a sly smile on Tarn. “Where’s your new friend?”

  “Making himself useful.”

  “Is he what I assume he is?”

  “Aye.”

  Sethan shook his head, taking a long look over the quiet sands. He might claim that Cayl was the practical one in their relationship, but Tarn noted that his hands were steady on the reins. However, he was his normal languid self when he said, “Ia tells me it was once common for dragons to walk in the forms of men, but a desert? Unheard of.”

  “Common enough in days gone by,” Tarn said. “To walk among the men of our hoards, we needed a smaller shape. The forests of old wore the shape of women, and the sea spirits of the north could be men or seals, as the fancy took them. Deserts have little interest in the business of men, for the most part, but there is nothing to forbid them from taking mortal guise.”

  “So much knowledge lost,” Ia murmured wistfully.

  Tarn grinned at her again. “Ask freely.”

  “Not now,” Sethan said hurriedly. “Is Gard truly amnesiac? How did he come to take this form?”

  Tarn shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “You asked me to bind him.”

  Sethan’s grin went a little malicious. “And you chose a human body?”

  Ia snickered, and Tarn blushed again.

  “A young, male, pretty human body?” Sethan continued. “Did you choose not to clothe him too?”

  “I did not choose the form,” Tarn protested. “Now, let me go back to Lyson.”

  “Wait a moment,” Sethan said. “Ia?”

  She sighed but rode away, leaving Tarn alone with Sethan.

  “A lot of us are angry at you for lying,” Sethan said. “No one expects a caravan guard to sprout wings.”

  “It is not a world where I can walk openly among men,” Tarn said. “I would be too strange a thing to ever speak honestly with people.”

  “I understand that,” Sethan said. “Half the world was talking about the rumors of the dragon over Tarenburg in the autumn. People thought it was everything from a sign of the end of the world to an invitation to go hunting—silly fools.”

  “They would not have an easy hunt of it,” Tarn said, letting his laugh rumble out.

  “Now I’ve seen you, I believe it. I’d never truly imagined dragons to be quite so large.”

  “I am the oldest.”

  “Yet you need to work as a caravan guard?”

  Tarn shrugged. “This body needs food and clothing. I needed to reach the desert. A job was necessary.”

  Sethan shook his head. “What, my dear, no hoard of gold? How disappointing.”

  “Grave goods,” Tarn told him, and was swept with the memories of his old hoard once more: the children with their bright laughter and curious questions; Myrtilis, with her husky laugh, blazing in battle; steadfast Killan with his merry eyes.

  It must have showed on his face because Sethan said gently, with none of his normal bite, “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Tarn nodded in acknowledgment. “You have given me the company of friends to assuage it, and I am glad. We are not solitary creatures.”

  “C
learly not,” Sethan murmured, and for a moment he looked as young and curious as Dit. Then he shook his shoulders out, and said, “I kept you back to tell you that Cayl is one of those most angry with you.”

  “Then let me talk with Cayl,” Tarn said. “You should not tangle yourself in our quarrel.”

  “Ah, my dear, that is what men do for those they love.” His face sobered again, and Tarn noticed that his hands were tight and white-knuckled on the reins. “That nixie…. It hurt him, Tarn.”

  “I will not,” Tarn said, and without intending it, the words rolled out with the crack of truth, as if he were still the leader of all the armies of men and spirits.

  He left Sethan after that and rode back along the line, taking the time to call greetings to those he knew best. Sethan had reminded him that he did know how to win men to him, even if he had not needed the skill once his mastery had been established. He should think himself back four thousand years, to the first men he had met and traded words with—he wore one of their faces, after all. Surely he could remember how to befriend them.

  He stopped at the chirurgeon’s wagon to ask after Ellia and was told she had roused earlier and spoken to Jancis but was now sleeping again.

  As he passed Barrett’s wagon, Gard called out to him, “Hey, Tarn. Give me a ride?”

  He stopped and chatted to Barrett for a moment or two as Gard swung up behind him and settled against his back with a satisfied sigh. “Oh, you’re warm! Forget riding guard—you’d be much more popular if you started offering services as a bed warmer.”

  “Most folks here prefer to warm their own beds,” Tarn told him as Gard slid his arms around Tarn’s waist. “Who do you plan to plague next?”

  “Can’t I just plague you?” Gard demanded, tickling his ribs. “It’s so much fun.”

  Barrett rolled his eyes at Tarn. “Your boy there has been working his way up the line. Must say I’m looking forward to a sand-free bed tonight.”

  “I have to make myself useful,” Gard announced, “or they might not feed me. Imagine this body starving. It wouldn’t be right, would it, friend Barrett?”

  Tarn smacked his leg. “Stop flirting. He’s taken.” And so are you, he thought, but didn’t share that.

  “Oh, that shouldn’t stop me,” Gard said lightly. “I’m always willing to share.”

  “We’re leaving now,” Tarn told Barrett, who had gone scarlet. “I’ll keep this menace with me.”

  “I’m not a menace,” Gard complained as they rode away. Then after a quiet moment, he poked Tarn in the side and said, “So, I hear you’re a dragon?”

  Ah, yes, humans also liked to gossip, didn’t they? It seemed the tendency extended to small deserts.

  BY DAWN, Ellia was awake. She smiled at Tarn wanly in the silver light and said, “So, rumor has it you’re not human.”

  “This body is,” Tarn said, shrugging. “You don’t seem angry?”

  She laughed and then winced. “Ow, my ribs. And no, I’ll be getting free drinks off this for the rest of my life. I actually fought beside the king of the dragons. Nice.”

  “Heal fast,” he told her. “There are battles yet to come.”

  BY NOON the horses were tiring. Tarn was called to the front of the line, and Gard went with him, biting down yawns as he waved and greeted all the traders by name.

  “You’ve only been here a day,” Tarn grumbled.

  “People like me,” Gard said. “I think it’s because I smile. You should really try it someday.”

  Tarn bared his teeth in a fixed grin. “I do smile.”

  “That just makes me think you want to eat me,” Gard said with a shudder.

  Tarn kept his face blank and said, “Perhaps I do.”

  That kept Gard quiet and puzzled until they reached Ia. She nodded at them and said, “We’ll need to stop soon. How do we ward against the dead?”

  “We can’t,” Tarn told her. “All wards will break eventually. The dead fear nothing, so will not stop for pain or fear.”

  “We won’t see them coming in the dark,” Cayl said, not looking at Tarn directly. “We need something to warn us.”

  “I can set fire wards into stones and swords,” Tarn offered. “But they only light when the dead are within arm’s reach.”

  “We’re not trained in fighting the dead, and half these folks couldn’t tell one end of a sword from another,” Ia said. “By the time they’re that close, we might as well lie down for a nap and die sleeping.”

  “If only,” Gard murmured and then waved as they all looked at him. “I think I can help. I can make the sand sing.”

  “Like the Singing Sands of Essam?” Sethan asked. “I thought that was the wind.”

  “There, it is, but if I rearrange the sand correctly, I can make the ground sing out under any shuffling step. As long as the dead don’t tiptoe, we’ll have our warning.”

  “The dead don’t tiptoe,” Tarn told him and looked to Ia. “What range do our archers need for head shots?”

  She pursed her lips. “It varies. We’ve got a few with horse bows as their second weapon, which is a shorter range. Let me take your boy, and we’ll work out how to place our people and his sands to play to our advantage.”

  “I don’t know why everyone keeps assuming I’m his,” Gard complained. “I don’t have his name tattooed on my ass.”

  “And we’ve all had a chance to see that for ourselves, haven’t we?” Sethan observed. Then he paused, laying a finger on his chin. “Hmm. I like the idea, though. I can just see you with a great big ‘S’ adorning your better parts, my darling.”

  Cayl snorted. “I like how you assume that I’d be the one wearing your initials.”

  “I like to mark what’s mine,” Sethan murmured, leaning against his shoulder. “You’re too precious to risk losing.” Then he narrowed his eyes at Tarn. “We’re having a little private moment here. Do go away.”

  Tarn went.

  THAT NIGHT, with Gard’s wards set and the archers ready, Tarn prowled the line, long after his own watch had finished.

  When the first eerie groan sounded from the sands, he was there to raise his arm and send flames licking into the night, illuminating the shuffling figure crossing the sands.

  Jancis’s arrow sang with a sweeter sound, taking it in the head so it stumbled and fell back, making the sands groan again before Tarn’s fire engulfed it.

  “Don’t dry out the sand, you idiotic lizard!” Gard shouted, appearing at his shoulder in a rush of fury. “It’s the damp that makes them sound so loud!”

  “Sorry,” Tarn said shortly and turned his flames up into the night instead. There were more coming, and they needed the light.

  The sands sounded again from the other side of the circle of wagons, and Gard dashed off.

  All night the dead came at them, and all night the sands wailed, the bows sang, and Tarn’s flames lit the darkness. He could hear the hushed, frightened voices of the traders, fastened snugly into their wagons. Someone was praying, their voice soft and fast. Others had gathered in Barrett’s wagon, abandoning sleep to play cards, none of their eyes on the stakes.

  Tarn only saw Gard in action once, his lip in his teeth as he raised his hand and the sand plumed up to surround the staggering, eyeless dead, dragging them down into the ground.

  After a few hours, the onslaught slowed, the remaining dead forced to crawl over the bodies of the fallen, making them easy to target. Gard reappeared at Tarn’s side, his eyes tired and shadowed.

  “Who were these people?” he asked. “Before they were forced to this?”

  “The ones we met before were slaughtered traders,” Tarn said, and slung an arm around Gard’s shoulders. He looked like any young soldier in his first battle—shocky, shivering, and tense for more. “Plenty of people move through the desert.”

  “The others say that the Shadow did this.”

  “It did.”

  “The only Shadow I ever heard of was an old nightmare out of legend. It fell, the storie
s said.”

  “You remember the stories.”

  “I remember that the Shadow fell.” Gard raised his hand, shoulders tightening under Tarn’s arm. “Another!”

  But a crossbow bolt was already spitting out to fell it midstumble. It was easier at night, Tarn remembered from long-ago battles, easier when you couldn’t see that they’d once had faces.

  “By the time we brought it low,” he said, feeling the responsibility of it on his shoulders again, “it was too late to destroy it. We had taken too long, and it was more spirit than flesh. Such things, such ancient things, can be bound or punished or torn into scraps of power and hatred, but they cannot be utterly unmade, not once they are part of the matter of the world.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gard murmured.

  “So am I,” Tarn said heavily.

  Not long after that, Ia came marching toward them. “Have you two slept?”

  “We’ve been busy,” Gard said. He was resting most of his weight against Tarn now, but his eyes were still sharp.

  “The attack’s slowing. Most of the traders are sleeping now, and I’ve sent the nonarchers to bed. If this keeps going, we need to pace ourselves.”

  “There are only so many dead in the desert.”

  She nodded. “Tarn, I’ve read about the attacks on the supply trains in the third battle of Astalor—they came in waves, right?”

  Tarn nodded, remembering. “Once the first wave had been exhausted, and the graveyards emptied, it took time before the next wave reached the train. We can’t outrun them, but we can choose our ground and move in between waves.”

  “They don’t exactly move fast,” Gard muttered. “I could outrun them.”

  “The horses need to rest. The dead keep moving.”

  Ia was listening carefully. “So, we wait until we’ve had no new incursions for a significant stretch of time—one cup of sand or two?”

  “One, in a standard timer,” Tarn said.

  “We could put an archer on the back of the line in case any real stragglers show up late for the feast,” Gard suggested.

  “Fine, but at that point, you two, and anyone else who’s been out all night, will be sleeping in one of the wagons. Go and negotiate a space somewhere.”