by Carol Berg
I summoned the wind and streaked toward the battle, holding my enchantments on my tongue. Aleksander was engaged in a ferocious duel with a squat warrior wearing Hamrasch colors. The Prince’s white cloak was ripped and stained with blood, and his golden arm rings glinted in the sun as he swung his sword, shivering the hot air with the force of his blow. The blood-streaked Hamrasch, his left arm hanging limp, shifted back as he parried, but did not fall. The man’s snarling face told me he would endure much to gain this victory. Dovat zha Hamrasch, the dead girl’s uncle.
Five warriors, including the wiry Malver and the two bearded Derzhi from Aleksander’s apartments, were positioned around the Prince, holding a space large enough for Aleksander to maneuver and fending off those who were trying to attack him. But their protective ring was collapsing as the imperial troops were disarmed, freeing more Hamrasch warriors to concentrate on the Prince. Even as I swooped in, one of the bearded Derzhi fell, shredded by three Hamrasch swords. I circled, and another of the five defenders, a giant Derzhi who had roared in warrior’s glee with every swing of his outsize sword, stiffened as a spear point was buried in his back. The big man swung his weapon lazily and then toppled from his mount as four more spears found their mark in his massive body.
A tall Hamrasch warrior forced his way through screaming horses and crowding troops toward the Prince. Leonid. The dead girl’s father paused at the edge of the chaos, watching Dovat hammer away at Aleksander, ready for his brother to yield him the final blow. I had only moments to get Aleksander out.
I spoke the first word bound to my enchantment, drew my sword, and flew in a circle about the collapsing ring, leaving a wall of silver fire in my wake. Carefully I wove the essence of the desert noonday—no illusion, but true flame—around Aleksander’s protectors, trying not to harm those I was hoping to save, trying to exclude as many Hamraschi as I could, for we would have to deal with any left within the ring. As the wall of fire grew, wonder spread across that battlefield, transforming the din of battle into cries of terror. A few brave souls tried to ride through the flame, but realized quickly that it was nothing like the fakeries produced by Derzhi court magicians. The men screamed as they burned, their terrified horses rearing and causing worse havoc in the ranks.
When my circle was complete, I dived into the center, almost too late. Aleksander’s beloved Musa lay dead in the center of the ring, and the Prince himself was on the ground, struggling to extract his left leg from under the fallen beast while desperately holding off a scowling Dovat with his sword. At least ten Hamraschi besides Dovat and Leonid remained inside the ring. Only their stunned confusion at the silver fire and my appearance prevented disaster, for by this time only Malver and one other man were left to aid the Prince. For the moment, they, too, held tightly to their rearing mounts, gawking at me as if the gods had suspended time.
“Look at my face, Malver,” I yelled over the roar of the flames, disabling two awestruck Hamraschi in as many swings, praying that the soldier would remember that he’d seen me in the Prince’s chambers. “Get Aleksander on a horse. We’re going to take him out.”
“Druya’s horns, it’s the Ezzarian!” The second defender, wearing the red and gold of the imperial guard, sprang to life first, driving his horse between the Prince and the stunned Leonid. Skillfully he blocked a blow from behind him, even as he dared the bewildered Hamrasch lord to take him on. As I drove another Hamrasch into the wall of flame, I caught a glimpse of the guardsman’s face—craggy, intelligent, familiar, a wide and wondering expression of dawning hope on his weather-worn face. The warrior was Sovari, the longtime captain of Aleksander’s personal guard. The efficient, experienced Derzhi was devoted to the Prince, and I could only imagine what threats Aleksander must have used to force the loyal guardsman into safe exile with Kiril. I was immensely thankful that Sovari had seen his duty at Aleksander’s side that day. “Am I dead?” he yelled, letting a dagger fly at a huge, black-bearded Hamrasch who was aiming a spear at the Prince. “Or just seeing visions?”
I laughed and kicked the sword from a gaping warrior’s hand before sweeping him from his mount with my wing. “Visions. Your aim’s too good for a dead man.” The black-bearded Hamrasch toppled from his horse, Sovari’s dagger in his heart.
Captain Sovari’s words unlocked Malver’s stupefaction. As I swung my sword at a new attacker, Malver slid easily off his mount and ran to the Prince’s side, fending off a blow from Dovat that was about to split Aleksander’s skull. Beneath the roar of flame and terror, I could hear Malver muttering. “Holy goddess mother protect us ... holy goddess ... holy mother ...”
Leonid, his sure vengeance cast suddenly into doubt, shook off his astonishment, bellowed at his warriors, and attacked Sovari. While Malver worked to free Aleksander, I touched earth and distracted Dovat with a slash to his legs. From behind me Malver’s steady stream of invocations was replaced by a steady stream of curses, along with a harsh command. “Get me on my feet and get out of the way.” Pain twisted the Prince’s voice almost beyond recognition. “I will not die groveling.”
“Get him on a horse,” I yelled over my shoulder. “Throw him over the saddle if nothing else. By the count of twenty.” My wall of fire would not last much longer. I could feel the melydda draining from me, the pain in my right side was threatening to tear me apart, and the most difficult part of the enchantment was yet to come. I disarmed the stubborn Dovat, and he slumped to the hard earth as if his sword had been the only thing holding him upright.
From behind me came an agonized groan, followed by a rasping curse. “Damn your eyes, I said on my feet.”
“I’ve got him up,” cried Malver.
In a way it was much easier that Aleksander was wounded. I had no time to argue with him. “Malver, follow me. Sovari, stay close and guard his back.” I took a breath, countered two slashes, and summoned the wind.
It had been waiting on the horizon at the boundary of the dune seas a league away, a roiling monstrosity of such power as could flay a man. At first, in the sudden void left by the dying of the silver flames, it sounded only like the lowest note of a droning mellanghar, a quiet rumble felt deep in the belly. But in moments it devoured the western sky, and the rumble became deafening thunder, shaking the ground beneath my feet.
“Paraivo!” Five hundred voices cried at once, and, as the first stinging sand whipped across my face, the field erupted into madness.
We had to move quickly. Holding such an enchantment more than a brief time would leave me a dried-out husk. I had thought to carry Aleksander away in my arms, but I could not abandon his two valiant defenders. They would not survive Leonid’s rage long enough for Kiril to claim them when he bargained for surrender terms as I had asked him to do. Enough men had died that day. And so, with my wings spread wide to create a sheltered breathing space for those who followed, I forged a way through the raging wind.
The sand cut through cloth and flesh like slivers of glass, and threatened quick suffocation. My garments were soon in shreds, scarcely enough of my haffai scarf left to wrap around my nose and mouth. My watering eyes were narrowed to slits, and what scraps of melydda I could spare were dedicated to protecting them. I had planned to head southwest, as that would get us through the bulk of the storm soonest and keep the scouring sand between us and the Hamraschi, but I quickly forgot such details in my struggle to keep breathing and to move in any direction at all. Gods of night and day, could you not have come up with a better idea? I berated myself as the wind blasted through a small hole in one wing, leaving an excruciating tear. Though truly, how many things did I know to distract two armies? On further consideration, I decided I’d done well enough.
It seemed only moments until I reached the limits of my endurance. My lungs were on fire, my wings about to rip from my screaming shoulders. Red lightning threatened to crack my skull from the inside as I fought to push through the wind and hold my working together. All we needed was distance. Every mezzit was precious. A few more sweeps
of the wings. A few more thrusts into the wind. A few more steps for the racing beasts behind me. At first I had been able to glimpse the dark outlines of panicked men and horses on the peripheries of my vision, but either the whirling sand was hiding them or we had made it past the boundaries of the battlefield. Enough. Let it be enough. One more breath, and then I would stop. Another. I reached down deep for yet one more, until at last I had nothing more to draw on. Then I touched my feet to earth and cut loose my tether to the wind, leaving the world enveloped in profound silence.
CHAPTER 7
“How is he?” I croaked. I sat on a hill of hot sand, my forearms resting on my knees, hands dangling limp, head hung forward where the westering sun could not touch the raw flesh of my face. I had been in the same position for at least two hours, forced to hear Aleksander’s muffled agony as Sovari and Malver worked on his shattered leg, but unable to help, to watch, to advise, because I was absolutely incapable of movement, reasoning, or speech. Now silence had fallen over our little patch of desert, I had rested awhile, and I was anxious to know the outcome of their activities.
“Two breaks that we could tell, one of them with the bone sticking out. We did our best, but I don’t know if ... damn all... damn all ...” The nervous man kneeling in the sand just down the hill from me—Sovari, it was—held quiet until he had controlled the shaking in his voice. It had taken him a number of stammered beginnings even to answer me. “He’s insensible. Just as well, as we’ve got to splint it better if we can find the means to do it. All we had was our scabbards to work with. It was wicked for him.”
I knew that much. I’d heard the bones grinding as the two grunting warriors had pulled and twisted to set them back straight.
“And we’ve got nothing to dress the wounding in his flesh. Malver has seen hot oil poured in the wound save such a limb ... but we’ve none, so we’ve had to leave it...”
“You can only do your best.” I tried fruitlessly to moisten my lips. They felt like tree bark, and my tongue like slate. No moisture existed anywhere within me.
I felt the instant relief of shade as the big man squatted in front of me and stuck a sliver of something warm, moist, and pulpy in my mouth. “Carroc,” he said. “You should suck on it. We’ve only a bit of water, so Malver’s gone scouting. There’s good prospects. We’ve found the carroc, and this kind of wasil usually has springs.”
“Thank you. Where are we?”
“We’re not sure. From the sun, we estimated we rode at good speed for almost an hour, which would put us some eight or nine leagues from Zhagad. But in what direction we’ve no idea. The storm wiped out our tracks. We’re in wasil, more sand than rocks, and dunes in every direction.” He hesitated. “We were hoping you’d know.”
My gratitude for the sweet, life-giving flesh of the thick-skinned desert plant was matched only by my respect for Captain Sovari. The captain’s hand displayed only the slightest tremor as he touched a man who had just raised a storm that Derzhi lore attributed to the wrath of the gods. Stars in the heavens, I’d held it an hour. No wonder I felt like the wrath of the gods.
“We’ve made a bit of shade over by the Prince. Of course you are welcome to it and everything we ... everything.”
“Not yet. Thank you.” I was doing very well just to exist. Moving was out of the question.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“New shoulders, perhaps,” I whispered. “Maybe the loan of your skin.” My wings had disappeared with the last of my melydda, so thankfully I didn’t have to shift, but the muscles that had held them were still quivering. “A little time.” Maybe a year.
“I’ve never seen ... the fire ring ... the storm ... I don’t even know how to say it ...” His deep voice shook a little.
“Not all ex-slaves can do such things, you know.” I wasn’t so sure how I had managed all of it. “Takes a bit of doing even for those who can.”
His awe was diluted by a rueful chuckle. “The Prince is going to be as angry as a trapped kayeet at being pulled out of that battle. Seems you can take care of yourself, but I hope you’ll have a thought to protect Malver and me.”
I managed to lift my head enough to glimpse the long body lying motionless in the sand, shaded by a bloodstained white cloak stretched between two swords. “I’ll be happy to hear him go at us.”
Sovari’s voice sobered quickly. “I, too. I, too.” Only a living man could yell at us as Aleksander was like to. The captain went to check on Aleksander, and I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke, the cold desert night had me shivering. Someone had thrown a haffai on top of me, but the robe had blown off and was bunched up near my head, exposing everything but one arm. I was deciding whether it was worth the effort to retrieve it, when I heard voices.
“... Horses over there at first light to bring the water. They could carry the wood, too, but I haven’t a notion how we’ll get it cut fit to make a sturdy splint. If I’d just not lost the bloody ax ... Cursed Hamraschi.” The terse, weary voice belonged to Malver.
“Maybe Seyonne can manage the cutting,” said Sovari. “I don’t know that he’d need tools.”
“The dark gods save us, Captain.” Malver dropped his voice. “What is he?”
“I think you just said it, friend. The god must be in him. I’ve never believed in such ... not truly ... but I saw this man a slave in Capharna. They say Ezzarians are sorcerers, but back then he couldn’t so much as save himself from old Durgan’s lash.”
“That fire was real ... and the storm. Never seen any magician who could do such. And wings ... I’ve ever been Druya’s man, but I thought I was looking on Athos himself.”
“Tales were told back in Capharna, after Lord Dmitri was murdered and the Prince was accused ... tales of a man turning into a shengar, of someone helping the Prince escape through a barred window too small for a sparrow. This one, slave though he was, vanished at the same time as the Prince escaped. And last year, on that night we chased the Hamraschi into southern Manganar, the night of the terror when the troops all went mad, I saw something ... The Prince has never been quite the same since those days in Capharna, and I’ve wondered ... If the gods wanted to change a man, make him better than he was—”
“Shhh,” said Malver with a nervous hiss. “Rein your tongue, Captain.”
But the captain was not deterred. “—they might send someone to watch him ... to teach him ... one of their own.”
The two men fell silent, and I lay there with my skin on fire and every bone aching and thought that if I were ever to be a god, I would damn well work out things a little better. The wind raced across my skin, causing me to shiver and catch my breath, which set me coughing. With all that misery, I decided that maybe I could move after all and get myself a bit more comfortable, maybe even find a drink if the two soldiers had come up with so blessed a thing. So I stumbled to my feet and hobbled toward the flickering gold of their tiny tarbush fire. No one seeing me limping across the rocks and sand, my ragged clothes flapping in the wind, coughing and spitting out a quarry’s fill of dirt, was ever going to mistake me for a god.
Aleksander woke up later that evening as Malver was telling me about the sink he’d found—a depression in the wasteland of rock and sand where the scant rainfall and a spring had left a few spike-leafed nagera trees, some date palms, and a good water source. I’d said that with a few more hours’ rest, I should be able to ride, at least, and could probably come up with a way to cut wood to make sturdier splints for Aleksander’s leg. Malver kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my boots, and his left hand fidgeted with what looked like a piece of bone hung around his neck, a luck charm I guessed. Interesting that he called himself Druya’s man but had invoked the goddess mother during the battle.
Sovari was watching Aleksander. I had just downed a cup of nazrheel—the bitter, vile-smelling tea the Derzhi so prized—and between that and the sleep, I was feeling a good deal livelier, when the Prince began to mumble. “Dead men .
.. kill you for this ...” A moment’s rustling and a massive groan, and Sovari and I had him pinned to the ground so he couldn’t even squirm.
“You’ve got to stay still, my lord,” I said. “You won’t like the consequences if you try to move.”
His lips were bloodless, his muscles rigid under my hand. “Traitors,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “All three of you.”
“We’ve nothing to give you for the pain, my lord, and you know I’ve no talent for healing. I wish I could tell you other. But Galadon taught me a few things when I was in training—”
“It was my father’s honor.” Pain and fury had him trembling. “My honor.”
“You lost the challenge, as you knew you would. Your dying would have changed nothing, and that was all that was left.”
He wasn’t ready to hear those things. “My warriors—gods avenge me—abandoned. How could you do it?”
I told him about Kiril, then, though I knew what bitterness it would raise to hear how we had planned for his defeat. I told him what I had seen of the battle, every detail I could remember that might show him how hopeless it had been. I hoped he would argue with me, yell at me, spill out the gall so it would not eat at him, but he clamped his teeth shut and turned his head away.
Sovari risked his wrath to give him water, and we got enough in him that even when he spit it out, we knew he’d got some benefit from it. For a long while I saw him forcing his eyelids open, as if somehow refusing to succumb to sleep would be his fit punishment for living, but the exhaustion of his long ride from Suzain, two nights without sleep, the battle, and his injury soon overcame his will. Pain dogged his dreams, and the two warriors and I took turns restraining him through the night, lest his restless shifting make it worse.