Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  She didn’t even want to leave Saujibar with Farhan to begin with—especially not with Yuri Darkings in tow—and now she felt like she’d caused Farhan’s death. What was she thinking, calling out his name? Babrak wouldn’t have been injured by Farhan’s attack, but perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to use Farhan’s momentum to cast him to his death.

  It wasn’t her fault. She knew it wasn’t. It was that pis’truda, Babrak. That worm. ’Babrak had hated her father ever since her mother chose Muskigo over him. As if he didn’t have’ so many other wives and concubines already. Now he had all the afhemates believing her father was a traitor rather than a hero.

  She took off through the courtyard, drawing the attention of several Serpent Guards whose hands fell to their leather hilts. But they just watched as she crossed onto Golden Bluff. She looked over her shoulder at the tall gilded walls of the Caleef’s palace. Tall columns made the blackwood trees look miniature.

  As she turned back, the vast sea spanning before her, sharp rocks and breaking waves, she felt the weight of it all against her chest. Her father was several day’s ride away, even on the back of the fastest zhulong. There’s no way she could get there by sea; transit had all but stopped since Winde Port was lost and the Glass Kingdom shifted over a greater naval force.

  She felt a heavy drop of rain against the back of her neck, and it sent her spine shivering.

  Farhan was a good man. If the sky could open up at his loss, so could she. But she wouldn’t. She wiped away the beginnings of a tear, lifted her head against the wind and budding rain, and started down the bumpy, pebble road.

  “And I thought the Royal Council argued too much instead of getting things done,” Yuri Darkings addressed her. He stood just outside the palace grounds, leaning against a palm, slicing a bellot fruit with a knife.

  “You know nothing about us,” Mahraveh snapped.

  “Perhaps.” He moved into her path. “But I do know a lot about arguing. Your father won’t last long without reinforcements. That was Farhan’s great plan, so now what?”

  “Nothing you can help with.” She went to pass him, but he shifted to block her. “Move.”

  “I grew up in Winde Port, girl. And this war destroyed half of it. If your father dies, I go with him. And I don’t plan to die for a long time yet. So you’d better help me think of a way to gain support.”

  “Isn’t that your job? I said ‘move.’” She shoved by him and continued down the road. For as long as she could remember, all she’d ever wanted was to be left alone, but she didn’t mean like this, or with him. Anyone but Yuri. Who did she have now? Shavi? Shavi would be at home, and Mahraveh didn’t even know how to get home. She racked her brain, thinking of anyone she knew in Latiapur that could help, but no one came to mind.

  Before she knew it, she was at the bottom of the palatial cliff. The city was as peaceful as if a war wasn’t raging and their people weren’t dying. She figured that was always the life of those who lived in the capital. No thoughts, no worries.

  Stall owners and vendors stared at her as she pushed through a crowd in the marketplace. The swarm of people looked more like a school of jewel-toned fish weaving through coral in the Intsti Reef.

  She knew it was the tattoo on her neck which drew the attention, bright white against her gray skin, marking her as a member of the Ayerabi afhemate. Each had its unique brand. The Ayerabi afhemate, hers, wore a twisted root which wrapped around the back of her ear at the top, and at the very bottom of the tattoo, which was currently covered by Mahraveh’s teal, satin sarong, the root ended in a droplet of what looked like blood, but it wasn’t. Saujibar, her father’s settlement, stood proudly in the middle of the harsh desert plains, an oasis amidst black, and the only source of water for days. That root and drop of water represented everything her people knew.

  Lost in thought, Mahraveh bumped into an older woman garbed in a plain white sarong balancing a broad basket of wares on her head. The woman stumbled and cursed, but she didn’t stop. Mahraveh apologized, but the woman paid no attention.

  The smell of salted fish and flatbread hit her nostrils as she rounded the corner. She could hear hot oil spattering over an open flame.

  “Bellots! Fresh bellots!” cried a fruit vendor, and Mahraveh considered buying one until she realized she had no coin. Everything she had with her in Latiapur now beat against the sharp, hard stone at the bottom of the Sea Door in the Caleef’s throne room. Farhan had carried it all—a pouch bulging with coin. He was supposed to be taking care of her while they made their futile attempt to garner support for her father.

  Now, she was alone.

  Snakes don’t live in packs, she reminded herself. She straightened her back and strode toward the bellot seller.

  “Give me one and charge it to my father, Muskigo Ayerabi,” she demanded in Saitjuese.

  “Get out of her, girl!” the man shooed.

  She reached up and pulled back her collar, revealing her tattoo fully. The man stared at it for a moment, then laughed.

  “Can’t charge anything to a dead man,” he said.

  “Muskigo Ayerabi is the most fearsome afhem in all the Black Sands,” Mahi said. “When he returns, you will wish you’d taken up arms in his defense.”

  “And join all those fools like my brother who ran off to die beside him? Go back to your pond, girl.”

  Mahraveh glared at him. Back home, she would’ve never been talked to in such a manner. Before Winde Port went so horribly wrong, her father was a legend amongst the people. It was how he raised such an army of commoners and lesser afhems to march west. He was the man who’d stood against Babrak and impossible odds in a feud to claim Mahi’s mother, and won, who’d battled in the arena to take his name without suffering so much as a scratch. An unbeatable warrior and master of the black fist.

  How quickly the tides had changed now that he’d lost.

  “I’ll tell you what, girl,” the trader said when she didn’t budge. “Take a token for your loss and for the man your father used to be until he brought pain to so many.”

  He reached below the stand and pulled out a bellot, more brown than yellow. He then took a cleaver and chopped it in half, then quarters, before holding out one of the slices for Mahraveh.

  “He’s not dead,” Mahraveh said defiantly, then looked down at the fruit. She thought about refusing it out of principle, but her stomach outargued her pride. Snatching it, she turned back toward the crowd.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said, causing her to look back. “The Ayerabi afhemate will soon pass on to a more worthy warrior. It’ll be nice to have another contest soon. Good for business! In the meantime, there’s plenty of work in the brothels for orphan daughters like you.”

  Mahraveh felt her jaw tighten and the red return to her eyes, but just as she was about to respond, a hand touched her shoulder. Like his hand, the man’s face was as gentle as the waters of the Saujibar oasis. Serene, calming, peaceful. And his tattoo was the same as hers.

  “Let it go, Mahi,” he said. “The fool speaks only from the lies the other frightened afhems spin.”

  “Jumaat, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Saving you from a rotten meal it seems?” He pointed at the discolored bellot. “Put that down. I will buy you something more fitting for someone of your station.”

  “Salted fish?” she asked.

  He bowed. “Whatever you desire, Lady Ayerabi.”

  “Stop that,” she said with a hand wave.

  She followed him to the other end of the market. Jumaat had moved to her father’s afhemate a few years back after a particularly destructive sandstorm season claimed his parents’ home in Avassu. His parents said they wanted to live a slower life, but the way Jumaat’s father followed Muskigo around, Mahraveh knew it was more. Lucky for him, it was just a couple ten-days before his first hunt—where the men are taken into the dunes to prove their worth. Should they return alive, they are branded. Had they waited, he would forever bear the ma
rk of a traitor—like his parents.

  Her father’s influence had grown with the common people throughout the Black Sands. She knew it was part of why the other afhems resented him. They were the sons and followers of men who’d bravely fought and lost to the Glass Kingdom. Happy to serve and respect their conquerors, as if what Liam did was some everyday feud between afhems. They gave her people a bad name—the scared, fat, cowards.

  Mahraveh couldn’t help but feel sickened by all those going about their lives like nothing was wrong. Her father had spent her entire life telling her how they needed to become stronger to prove to the Glass they weren’t to be ruled over. He thought he’d inspire the whole region in taking Winde Port, but when it burned to the ground with so many Shesaitju warriors inside, all that progress died.

  “Come, let us talk somewhere more private,” Jumaat said, stirring her from her thoughts. He held two servings of salted fish and flatbread.

  Mahraveh nodded, but not before snagging her share and taking a bite. She licked a salt crystal from her lips. It was delicious. If only her once-mighty people fought as well as they cooked.

  Jumaat led her through the winding streets while they ate. She saw him eyeing her, and she flicked her dreadlocks over her narrow shoulder. “Did you follow me here?”

  “Follow you?” he said. “I didn’t even know you were here. It is typhoon season, remember? That means nigh’jels aplenty, stirred from the depths where their light is most needed.”

  “I’m still unsure why we can’t breed them in the oasis.”

  “They require salt waters—if we could, we would not be able to drink from the pool. A fair trade, I’d say.”

  “Here for trade… you sure that’s all?” Mahraveh lowered her chin slightly, looking up at him playfully.

  “I swear it on the sand and sea.” He grinned impishly. She nudged him in the side, then brought another bite to her lips.

  “How are your parents?” she asked, mouth still full.

  “Mother is fine. My father, same as yours,” Jumaat said. His smile made the words go down easier. Mahraveh had forgotten that his father marched with hers. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be in Latiapur fetching nigh’jels. Jumaat hadn’t yet reached his sixteenth year so he couldn’t join them. But an afhemate’s strength was more than it’s warriors; it took everyone.

  “Let me guess, you are planning to go back with Farhan to help your father or something insane, like always?” Jumaat said.

  “I… Farhan is dead,” she blurted out.

  Jumaat stopped. “What?”

  “Farhan,” she said. “Afhem Babrak Trisps’i killed him. Threw him straight through the Sea Door.”

  “That is not… How could he? There is no way the others will be okay with it.”

  Mahraveh took another bite of her meal, surprised she still had an appetite. But that was the thing about growing up in the Black Sands. Death was all around. It was part of life, not just the end of it. She knew Farhan’s spirit would be caught upon the eternal current of the sand and sea.

  “They were fine with it,” she said after swallowing. “It was technically self-defense.”

  “Farhan attacked Babrak? What was he thinking? Babrak is more zhulong than man; he’s an animal.”

  The thought of the big man made her stomach flip more than the thought of poor Farhan. “He was defending my honor.”

  Jumaat’s face scrunched and his eyes slid shut. He reached out with both arms and took her by the shoulders. Mahraveh flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

  Jumaat reeled his hands back. “I should not have been so presumptuous,” he said.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve just had a traumatic day.”

  It was then that Jumaat must have noticed the bruise on her cheek. He stretched his hand out, slower this time, and brushed her face. “He hit you?”

  “Hit me. Shoved me. You said it; he’s an animal.”

  “That no good son of a zhulong shog shoveler!” Jumaat’s hands squeezed into fists.

  Mahraveh grasped his wrist. “There’s nothing either of us can do about it now.”

  “Well, we will see how tough he is.”

  Mahi raised an eyebrow. “We?”

  “Of course. What could you possibly do without the fearsome Jumaat!” He stuck out his chest and, considering how stringy the young son of a nigh’jel trader was, Mahi couldn’t help but chuckle. He laughed with her. He had a knack for making the world seem brighter.

  He wiped his lips. “Are you full?” he asked. “Would you like more?”

  “I’m fine,” Mahraveh answered. “I really should get going. My father’s symbol is not as welcome here as it once was.”

  “I could go with you. I just need some time to gather my shipment. We could travel together. It would be safer. After we drop off the nigh’jels to my mother, I could go with you. Wherever you’re going. Nahanab. Brekliodad even. Anywhere in the world.”

  “That’s sweet,” she said, probably blushing. “But really, I’m okay. I need time to think.”

  “Nonsense. We will travel together. Your father would kill me if he knew I let you travel the dunes alone. My father’s taught me a bit about how to handle a sword too, you know.”

  Mahraveh began to formulate an argument, but Jumaat said, “Just let me be the gentleman for once. I know I am not Farhan. Not in looks nor in strength, but I am your loyal friend… always. Plus, I would appreciate the company on the trip home.”

  Although he might’ve been right about not having Farhan’s strength, Mahi had always found Jumaat handsome. In a town known for fearsome warriors, he was something different. There was warmth and kindness in his eyes. He’d have to fight one day, as all Shesaitju men did. She only hoped that their occasional sparring sessions back home would prepare him for what it meant to be a man.

  “Fine,” she said. “Only so you’re not lonely. But why don’t we let me handle the sword.”

  “Deal,” he said, laughing. “It should not take me long at the shore. Do you have Honey here?”

  Mahraveh’s zhulong Honey, named for her creamy, golden coloring, wasn’t the biggest zhulong, but she was the toughest. “Always. She’s tied up at the hub.”

  “Get her and meet me at the north gates at dusk. If we start off later, we can avoid more of the hot sun. I will see you soon.”

  He took her hand as if to kiss it, released it first, and bowed awkwardly. Mahraveh smirked as he then took off toward the shore.

  She would have a couple of hours before midday and nothing to do in the city. She’d heard so many stories of the capital, and it wasn’t terribly far from Saujibar, but now that she was older, this was her chance to see it; really see it.

  Latiapur was an ancient beauty. Older than any city in Pantego, except perhaps Glinthaven’s capital city of Myen Elnoir or the mysterious Brekliodad. It stood the test of time and only became more beautiful with age. Most buildings were short and squat, made from hardened black clay and blackwood, but just off the coast—the cove—stood an edifice it seemed only giants could have erected.

  The Tal’du Dromesh.

  The blood of countless Shesaitju warriors had stained its hallowed sand.

  Mahi stared at the incredible structure, which sunk from where she stood to the rocky coast of Latiapur. It curled into the cove—the grand arena. Her ancestors had long ago piled stone to build a dam against the sea and carved stands into the natural cliffsides surrounding a pit filled with sand. Sea-water and coral seeped in along the edges. Caverns sunk into the sides and led to the undercroft, impossible to tell whether they were natural or manmade.

  Alternating levels bore golden statues of fierce zhulong. Nigh’jel lanterns hung at intervals in the arches sculpted into the tops of each cliff, then built up with black sandstone above them. The lanterns were nothing like the ones Jumaat’s family sold—these were massive globes filled with water and dozens of the creatures in each. They cast a tremendous amount of light, even
in midday.

  “Incredible sight, isn’t it?”

  The salted fish floated back up to Mahraveh’s throat. Babrak stood beside her, arms crossed over his bare, tattooed chest.

  “How dare you speak to me after what you did!” Mahraveh turned to him. Her nails pressed into her palms and she squeezed her fists. It took all her willpower not to charge him.

  “You will be the one who watches how you speak, girl,” he said, leaning in. His rotting teeth were inches from her face. “When your father fails—and he will—and the Caleef returns, your precious oasis will be offered up in that hallowed arena and you along with it.”

  “You’re sick,” Mahraveh said.

  When an afhem died without a living male heir, the afhemate tournaments were held where a warrior presented by each afhem would fight to claim the leaderless afhemate as their own.

  That was where her father had supposedly earned his nickname “the Scythe.” Caleef Sidar Rakun held such a tournament during King Liam’s birthday after the conquering they called an alliance was complete. Warriors presented from all over the south fought, but Muskigo, much younger then, stepped into the sands as well.

  King Liam watched as her father sliced down ten men in the final round with nothing but his scimitar to claim the name of Ayerabi. It was said her father then looked up at him, pointed his blade and said, “You’re next, my king.” Liam supposedly laughed in adoration of his fire. It didn’t take long for warriors and travelers to flock to Muskigo’s side, and—like Jumaat’s parents had—abandon their afhemates for his.

  “I believe you’ll come to appreciate my…” Babrak yanked her in close, her arms touching his sweaty stomach, “…power.”

  “My father will return, and he will make you eat your own manhood—if you even have one,” Mahraveh said. “Perhaps that’s why my mother chose him.”

  “It won’t be long until you know for sure,” Babrak said, wearing that same smile he’d shown her in the throne room. “Be careful, little sand mouse; the snakes lurk beneath the dunes.”