by Glenda Larke
‘They are born under the sand,’ he reminded her, grabbing the reins before the animal could bolt again. ‘Anyway, that’s a big relief. We have your pack back, not to mention everything in the saddlebags.’ He didn’t have to say what relieved him most: she could now cross the Shiver Barrens with him. She could keep his cabochon mended.
They camped beneath the stars that night, huddled together for warmth under the cold desert sky. They made makeshift hobbles for the shleths out of the bridles and the nosebags and turned them loose for the night in a depression where water had seeped to the surface and plants grew in abundance. They boiled more water and rationed their food carefully, and Samia—with Arrant’s help as a beater—killed a pair of ground squirrels with her power. Lighting a fire to cook them was no problem when she had a working cabochon, and the colour had soon returned to hers. The squirrels were tough and tasteless, but oddly satisfying, perhaps because it had been their own efforts that produced the meal.
‘An interlude,’ Arrant thought as they sat by the fire that night, surprised at his own ability to be happy when he was with Samia. ‘It won’t last, but as sure as the sands are dry, it’s good.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Anything?’ Garis asked her.
Sarana, who had been using her far-sensing, shook her head and sat down again. Around her the camp on the First Rake bustled. Servants groomed mounts or cooked the evening meal. Magor warriors cleaned their weaponry or found more entertaining ways to wait for the dark, for the coming of the frost. Men wagered on the progress of two scorpions battling with pincered claws and curled tails; further away others listened to a man playing a lute. The smell of burning shleth pats sifted through the still air.
‘No.’ She was trying to keep the anxiety under control, but it wormed into every corner of her thoughts. ‘You and I were lucky. Lucky not to have been killed. Lucky to have survived the ravage-gale. Lucky to find the road again. We are strong in power and we had good wards. They had nothing!’
‘Not nothing,’ he said. ‘Samia is an Illusa. She can make a cabochon ward. And if I have learned anything in this life, it’s not to underestimate that daughter of mine. Or, in fact, that son of yours.’
‘Nobody has found them, and we have men scouring the land in all directions. Every one of them a Magor with an ability to far-sense.’
‘And a huge area of steep gullies and eroded hills to cover. Come on, Sarana—how far can you far-sense? Half a mile if you’re lucky?’
‘More if there’s a wind to carry sound.’
‘Which there hasn’t been for two days. We still haven’t found all of the men who were with Firgan, either. Or Firgan himself. My guess is this: Samia and Arrant arrived at the First Rake a day before we did, because we had to backtrack and go around the landslip. They started across the Shiver Barrens the moment the frost formed. In fact, you know that’s what they would have done if they got that far. Arrant was desperate to get to Tarran. That night there would have been no one looking for tracks, because we were still on our way here and no one knew they were missing.’
She grimaced. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I agree—we’d best ride on tonight to the Second Rake, and try to find them somewhere along the Fifth Rake later. And I guess I should be glad that he knows how to head north and not walk in a circle.’
He nodded, and tried to hide his bleakness from her. As usual, he wasn’t successful. She always could sense him. ‘Spit it out, Garis,’ she said.
It was a while before he replied, and when he did, the words belied his usual optimism. ‘Sarana—the truth is there’s no hope for any of us. We have failed. We failed the Mirage Makers, and ourselves, and Kardiastan. We were always so intent on ridding our land of the Tyranians, we didn’t give enough thought to our real enemy. We never even thought the Ravage was our enemy, but just the foe of the Mirage Makers. At first, we were all too young to understand, and we were raised without the guidance of older Magoroth. Too much was expected of us, and we failed.’
‘Acheron’s mists! Just because you’re worried sick about Samia is no reason to give up.’ She glared at him, wondering why his uncharacteristic pessimism galvanised her. ‘She’d deliver a lecture that’d leave you skinless if she heard you say that.’
Unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘You’re right. Skies, Sarana, you sounded so much like Brand then.’
‘Did I?’
They exchanged a look, remembering.
‘I miss him still,’ Garis said.
‘So do I,’ she said, softening. ‘Goddess, so do I.’
Firgan straggled into the camp on the First Rake late that night. He had ten of the Magor with him, all he could collect of the group that had started out from the wayhouse several days before. Some he had saved by brutally bullying them into using a collective ward to keep out the wind, the sand and the Ravage beasts looking for hell-knew-what in Kardiastan. Others of the band had panicked and tried to run their shleths for safety. Some of those, the ones who had regained their senses in time to ward themselves, he’d found alive. Others he had buried out there. Bloody fools.
It would all become part of the Firgan legend, he knew. If there was one thing he did well, it was look after his men. He was proud of that. Always had been. Proud of being a war leader who never let his men down, as long as they were committed to following him. His reputation had taken a battering lately; it had been time to repair the damage. And Firgan knew he had made a good start. The tale of his leadership would be all over camp before the last man rolled into his pallet that night. He gave a haggard smile in the direction of someone who asked after his welfare, and slid off his mount.
‘Oh, bit of a rough ride,’ he said, and then raised his voice a little. ‘But we can take it, eh, men?’
There was a sprinkling of laughter. He relinquished his reins to one of the servants and called for some wine for everyone in his party.
Someone said, ‘Ah, Firgan! Good to see you—we were worried sick you wouldn’t make it through. Especially after the Mirager came in and said he hadn’t met you on the way.’
‘The Mirager is here?’ he asked, and hid his annoyance. ‘I didn’t see him on the track.’
‘He’s not here any more. He came just before sunset, cross country. There’s a landslip on the road. He and the Miragerin and Magori-garis rode out as soon as the frost was thick enough. They are looking for their children—they are still missing after the ravage-gale.’
One of Firgan’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Are they indeed?’ He shook his head in a gesture of resigned sorrow. ‘That lad of the Mirager’s shouldn’t be allowed out on his own. Did Temellin bring the whole army?’
‘A cohort came in today, but that’s all so far. The rest are clearing the track. They’ll be here in a day or two. What’s it all about, Magori? We heard tell they expect the Ravage to take over the Mirage Makers.’
‘I think the Mirager and his Tyranian consort have been listening too much to Arrant. But parents always want to believe the best of their offspring, don’t they? Sad story, really. He’s a little twisted since his cabochon was cut. Couldn’t take it, poor lad.’ He clapped the man who had asked the question on the back. ‘I don’t think we need worry about being attacked by the Mirage Makers, do you?’ He grinned around the circle of men who had gathered to listen. ‘Since when have we been scared of pretty illusions anyway? Now, where’s that wineskin gone!’
Several people laughed and someone handed him the skin that had been doing the rounds. Firgan ignored the rest of the conversation, thoughts turbulent. Garis’s daughter and that piss-weak Arrant—if they were still alive—were out there somewhere without protection. He’d never have a better opportunity to get rid of the lad once and for all. And he wouldn’t mind killing the girl as well, especially as it would upset Arrant. She had the loveliest legs he’d ever seen on a woman. He hid a grin just thinking about how he could deal with her when he found the two of them. He’d always found resistance added spice to any encounter.
The problem would be to find them.
The hunt would be a gamble, but one worth taking. East or west? In the Shiver Barrens or still to the south of the First Rake? Ahead of him, or behind? Think. Process of elimination. Arrant badly wanted to get to the Mirage. So he was more likely to be ahead, rather than behind, and in the Shiver Barrens, rather than not.
But Sarana and Garis would have had people searching the edge of the frost every night for footprints. And they hadn’t found them, obviously. Was the boy stupid enough to have gotten himself lost getting to the rake? Firgan doubted it. He’d been well taught—the little bastard had told him that much himself—and his teachers would have covered astronomy and navigation by the stars. Rule out being lost. So, what?
Dead, perhaps? Possible. They might have had no more than a puny Illusos ward. Easily broken. They might have panicked the way some of the soldiers had. Possible, but he couldn’t assume that. No, let’s say he lived, and yet hadn’t arrived at the First Rake. Why not?
Not dead, not lost—just slow. The terrain. Not so easy if you couldn’t find the track, and Mirage knows, it had been buried under dust an arm-length deep in places. So Arrant and Samia might have lost the path and had to backtrack each time they found their way blocked by a ravine or a gully or a cliff.
‘Now that’s a clue there,’ he thought. The terrain to the west was flatter. The terrain to the east was more rugged.
Firgan smiled. He would look east, and he would hunt himself a Tyranian-raised bastard. It was an off-chance, he knew that, but you had to make your own luck.
After that, it would be Sarana’s turn. Somewhere, sometime. Firgan was only in his thirties. He had time, and he could be patient. And he would be Mirager-heir. And once he was, well, he had no intention of waiting for that blind man to die of old age.
They stood by the shleth on top of the First Rake and looked out over the Shiver Barrens. It was already late in the afternoon, and the sands were cooling. The dance had gentled; the grains wove languorous designs a few inches high, strands criss-crossing each other like patterns on a loom. Their song matched the sleepy torpor of the movement.
‘It’s like a lullaby,’ Samia said, ‘singing a child to sleep. It’s hard not to think they are alive, isn’t it?’
He shuddered, remembering. ‘Sentient, perhaps,’ he said harshly. ‘But uncaring for all that.’
‘Maybe not. They could be like the Mirage Makers were in the past, harming us just because they did not understand human needs.’
Her words discomforted him, niggling like grit in the eye, although he wasn’t sure why. ‘Possibly.’
‘Why do they seem to be confined by the rakes? I mean, they can move. They could just roll on up and over the rake to join the sands in the next portion of the Barrens. Or escape altogether—end up in Madrinya. Yet they don’t. They don’t even get caught up in the wind—or the ravage-gales.’
‘You are thinking they are like grains of ordinary sand. But these form an entity, each grain seeking to stay close to the whole.’ When she looked puzzled, he added, ‘Think of them as being more like water than sand. The ocean doesn’t crawl up out of the depths and just keep on going when it hits the land. A wave breaks on the slope of the beach, then flows back to join the ocean. Oh, a storm wind may push it a bit further inland than normal, but it always strives to return to the whole, to the body of the sea.’
Her face cleared. ‘Ah. That’s a good analogy. It makes sense now. Do we cross tonight?’
His answer was an unequivocal ‘yes’. They had spent three days wandering around trying to find a way through the ravines to the First Rake. Wasted days.
‘Do we have enough feed for the mounts?’ she asked.
They had been grazing the animals, rather than using the wayhouse grain, but it took four nights to cross the Barrens. ‘We are a bit short.’ His words sounded wooden, a result of his refusal to let her hear his anxiety. ‘I’ve been collecting water beans in the soaks, and we could give them most of our food.’
‘Arrant, why don’t we try to find the end of the road? We’d be able to replenish our supplies from the storage bins there. Besides, Papa and the Miragerin could be there. Even if they weren’t, there’d be others.’
‘It could take us several days to find the camp. More, unless you can pinpoint which direction we should travel in. Is the end of the road that way’—he pointed to the east down the length of the rake—‘or that?’ He looked to the west, his gaze following the long line of the rock until it disappeared on the horizon. ‘Each rake is hundreds of miles long. Sam, can you sense anyone? Hear anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘But I thought you could tell where we are from the night sky?’
‘Well, I can tell what direction to travel in, but I don’t know where we started from. We might have crossed the track without seeing it during the ravage-gale. And then we were forced into so many diversions because of the gullies and rockslides…’ He shrugged. ‘I got us to the rake, but I don’t know how far to the east or west of the track. I want to cross here, Sam. I don’t have the luxury of time.’
‘Tarran’s still not answering?’
‘Nothing. I have to get to the last rake and call for him.’ And then what? A miracle? The only thing he knew for certain was that he was damned if he’d give up.
He’d heard all the tales throughout his years in the Academy. Everyone always talked of the dangers of the Shiver Barrens crossing, of the way a slight mistake in direction could result in death, of how cabochon powers didn’t work there, of how this or that Magoroth had died when they’d been thrown and abandoned by their shleth, of how many Tyranian legionnaires had tried the crossing and never returned.
No one had ever told him how beautiful the Barrens were. He’d seen them before from the First Rake, of course, but he’d never set foot on their frozen surface. He’d never been far out on that expanse of white frost glistening in the starlight, never listened to the utter silence, never seen the immensity of untouched sparkle stretching away from him in all directions, never felt the lingering magic of something in the air—of songs not quite heard, of love not quite realised, of happiness not quite attained. And yet, it was lonely out here, and deadly.
He wasn’t worried about being lost in the darkness. His Magoroth sword may have been no help, but he could read the stars and a plain of frost held no fears just because it was trackless.
Nonetheless, hours after they started, the sight of the Second Rake ahead—blood-red and ancient against a purple dawn sky—melted the fear of dying that had lain in his gut all night.
He glanced at Samia. Skies, but she was beautiful. Graceful. Courageous. Everything about her seemed to promise a future. I will find a way to make sure she has one. I must.
They didn’t talk much. He concentrated on the careful pacing of the journey so as not to tire their mounts. And he thought about what lay ahead. He couldn’t be sure the Mirage Makers were still holding the Ravage beasts at bay, although he had a feeling he would know the moment the battle was lost. If Tarran was taken over by the Ravage, the monster he became would seek Arrant out. To gloat, to show him the twisted remnant of his still living brother, to reside in his own mind and—what? Drive him crazy with illusion? Kill him outright?
He would know if the Mirage Makers lost the battle, of that he was certain.
The long, hot day spent resting on the rake was a mix of pleasure and frustration, discomfort and fear. Pleasure because he was with Samia. Frustration in the constant painful rasp of not knowing if Tarran and Garis and Sarana were alive. Discomfort because they were hungry and the heat—as Samia put it—was hot enough for a curl-feathered hen to lay hard-boiled eggs. Fear because there had been another Ravage-gale early in the morning, carrying yet another Ravage beast, hunting them.
It must have been controlling the gale, at least in part, because the cloud dropped down low when the creature saw them, and the beast tumbled out. It meant to fall at his feet, he was sur
e, but it misjudged its forward momentum and fell instead into the edge of the singing sands. The sand grains were merciless. They attacked from all sides, like a hungry school of fish, each after the same morsel of food. They thrashed and boiled and ripped the beast to shreds, the frenzy spreading through the sands in a turbulent wave.
Arrant and Samia stood on the rake, and watched in grim fascination until it was all over.
‘It wasn’t like that when you and the Mirager were under the sands,’ Samia said. ‘It can’t have been. You would both have died.’
‘Maybe because Temellin and I are human.’
‘Or because that beast was not.’
‘Perhaps.’ He touched his necklet. It was uncomfortably hot. He felt the runes move along his skin, as if they had left the stone to touch him. When he saw Samia watching him, he said, ‘I wondered once if the necklet was trying to tell me the words of the song of the Shiver Barrens, the way it tries to tell me what my mounts are thinking. Trouble is, it speaks a tongue I don’t understand.’
She glanced back at where the Ravage beast had been. The sand danced on, as if there had never been anything there. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to know.’ She paused, then added, ‘People only become evil when they don’t listen to the good that’s within them. You are right. The Mirage Makers should never have tried to separate one from the other. Arrant, there’s no way their goodness could curb the evil of the Ravage if they were reunited, is there?’
‘Once that might have worked, but not now. Come, let’s try to sleep.’
But a day spent dozing and waiting for nightfall seemed endless. Restful sleep evaded him.
Samia’s severed head presented to him on clawed hands covered in gore, blood streaming from her eyes, her toothless, tongueless mouth opening to dribble entrails while the Ravage laughed…
Dreams? These weren’t dreams. They were promises—and more.