War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) (11 page)

“Hush up, you.”

“Thank you, ladies.” Iyasu stood up slowly. “We’ll be sure to heed your advice.”

“Take care, young people.” The white-haired lady waved as they left. “Don’t have too much excitement. Save some for when you’re older!”

Iyasu saw Zerai and Veneka exchange a grin and he hurried up the road away from them.

They followed wide boulevards, passed broad red temples with tall round towers, and paused to stare up at the white pyramids of the palace where lush green gardens surrounded the mysterious homes of the Elladi royalty who dwelled with the spirits, and the bodies, of their ancestors. After an hour of snaking their way through the city streets, and criss-crossing back and forth over the Leyen a handful of times on its many bridges, they finally came to a field at the northern edge of the city where the larger caravans gathered to feed and water their camels and horses, and struck their tents together in a small city of linen, wool, and silk.

“What now?” Petra asked, tapping her foot. “Start asking around? It’s getting late.”

“It is.” Iyasu looked up at the bloody sun sinking toward the edge of the world. “We should find the Vaari caravan and see if we can spend the night with them.”

“Do you think they’ll know something?” Zerai asked.

“Maybe.” The seer started walking toward the pale blue pennants snapping in the breeze. “Though mostly I’m thinking that they’ll have something decent to eat.”

They found the Vaari encampment to be a pleasant, welcoming place where every inch of the ground was covered in heavy carpets and the tents stood closely together in a ring around a central courtyard, so that once inside they could no longer see the dusty towers and swaying lanterns of Sabah. The Vaari traders and artisans were stern and wary of the newcomers, but only until Iyasu introduced themselves as clerics of the holy mount. Then the cry went up all around that the magi of the east had come among them, and the travelers were welcomed with smiles and open arms.

Zerai laughed and shook Iyasu’s shoulder. “I forgot how many people still call you magi.”

“You used to be one of them,” the seer pointed out.

“I wonder what they would say if we told them about the djinn.”

Iyasu squeezed his friend’s arm. “Don’t even joke about that. Remember, back when you called us magi, you also called the djinn demons.”

Zerai’s smile faded and he nodded.

Everyone gathered around the fires in the center of the carpeted courtyard, and the clerics and djinn sat down among the potters, glaziers, weavers, and painters from the western desert. The Vaari wore light blue robes and dresses and cloaks that hung in loose folds from their shoulders, giving the men and women all the same flowing shapeless forms.

Just like the djinn walking through shadows. Hopefully no one will notice that little trick this evening.

Food appeared from within the tents, prepared and served by husbands and wives who excelled in grilling meats, baking kissra and gurassa breads, crushing eye-watering spices, and brewing aqari gin from dates.

Iyasu did his best to chat politely with the men and women seated around him as he filled his bowl with spicy steak and potato stew, fried chickpea cakes covered in too much coriander, baked fish crusted in peppers and onions, and half a dozen other dishes that he didn’t quite recognize but enjoyed all the same. He ate to excess, until his belly felt truly full and his senses dulled, filling his mind with a desire to find a bed, to lie in that bed, and to never leave it.

He let his eyes drift halfway closed and his mind wandered, not to visions of beasts or battlefields, but to the quiet mountain paths where he had run and played between his lessons with Arrah, when life consisted entirely of being happy and content, at peace with himself and his friends…

A voice intruded gently into his thoughts, and Iyasu opened his eyes just a little to see a Vaari man standing off to one side, singing. The singer wore the same blue robes as everyone else, but even in his stupor Iyasu could see that something was not quite right about this man’s body.

He has no left arm.

He glanced over at Veneka and saw her leaning back in Zerai’s arms as she listened to the man’s song slowly swell and grow, unaccompanied by any instrument. She gazed at him, caught somewhere between admiration and pain.

She’s going to heal him. Or try to, anyway. I wonder what that will be like for him. I wonder how long he’s been without it.

The man sang in the language of the Vaari, a dialect that Iyasu could not begin to fathom, so he let the melody dance majestically through his thoughts as his eyes dipped closed again. He imagined it to be a ballad, a love song, a tale of ancient heroes and maidens and tragic misunderstandings that would end badly, and yet with a note of hope.

The next time his eyes flickered open he saw that the singer was a little closer to the fires and had turned to reveal that he wore a blue silken scarf across the left side of his face, which almost covered the scars on the side of his head.

Something with very large claws tried to kill this poor man. This singer. I wonder why he’s still alive. Someone must have saved him. With wounds like that, he couldn’t have saved himself.

I couldn’t have…

He shuddered.

I would have bled to death in that boat. I would have died today. But look at them all now, so happy, so content. I doubt any of them almost died today.

Or…

He sat up a little straighter.

Maybe they did. Maybe they do all the time, and I’m the only one sitting here like a sack of filth feeling sorry for myself when a man with one arm and one eye is singing his heart out for me.

Damn me.

Iyasu blinked his eyes wide and tried to focus on the singer a little more, tried to follow the melody and imagine what the words meant. He was staring so intently at the singer that he was sharply startled when the man stopped singing and everyone turned to look behind him. Iyasu looked up, frowning, and saw the six armed men stepping into the private enclosure of the Vaari camp.

The six men carried short swords and long spears, and on their shields they carried a symbol, an emblem that Iyasu knew all too well.

The lion shield of Maqari.

Darius’s men.

Some of the Vaari stood up. Some of them began talking to the soldiers, offering them food, asking them to leave, extending handfuls of money, pointing threatening fingers.

Iyasu clutched the carpet under him.

No. No, not here, not now. Oh God, please, not again.

He felt his clothing suddenly flush with warmth as a dark stain grew on the carpet under him.

Run, run away, we need to run away.

But he didn’t run. He couldn’t move, or even speak. He sat very still with tears pooling in his eyes as the soldiers raised their swords and began to slaughter the Vaari.

Chapter 8
Zerai

The falconer saw the strange movement of the tent flaps before the soldiers arrived, and he put his hand on his sword. He saw the drawn blades in the soldiers’ hands and he placed his empty hand on the ground just in front of Veneka. So when the screaming started, he was ready.

As the first Vaari fell dead to the ground, Zerai grabbed Veneka around the waist and pulled her to her feet as he stood up, and with a silent look he sent her running toward Iyasu, away from the soldiers. He glanced once at Samira.

Will she help a bunch of lowly humans?

Can she help, here, with all this grass and carpet everywhere?

The djinn cleric seemed more interested in getting her sister to safety, so Zerai ignored her and dashed into the fray. A handful of the Vaari had knives and small wood axes, and they were trying to protect their friends and families with these meager weapons, but the only thing that slowed the soldiers’ progress was when they paused to pull their swords out of the bodies of the slain.

Zerai shoved past the poorly armed potters and weavers and brandished his khopesh at the invaders. Three large men in banded armor raised their shields and glared at him.

Oh shit.

Zerai stumbled sideways to avoid the first two stabs and hacks, and he swung his short sword wildly to knock the oncoming blades aside as he tried to push the Vaari back to safety, wherever safety might be.

“Go! Go!” he hollered as he fended off the Maqari soldiers. “Run!”

One of the soldiers lunged past him and Zerai hacked with both hands at the man’s ribs, only to see his own sword clank uselessly on the man’s bronze armor.

I am a dead man.

He grabbed the soldier and jumped onto his back, wrapping his arms around the man’s head to cover his eyes as he tried to pull him off balance.

The ground under the soldier’s feet surged upward, hurling him onto his back and crushing Zerai beneath him. The falconer groaned as he beat on the man’s face and kicked to roll him away, but the soldier seemed too stunned and too weighed down by his armor to move away. Zerai twisted around and grabbed his sword from the edge of the carpet beside him and looked around for the other soldiers, but he could only see their backs.

Kicking and swearing, Zerai crawled out from beneath the stunned soldier and staggered to his feet just in time to see the Vaari flooding out of the encampment to reveal a lone figure standing beside the fire pit.

So she decided to help after all.

Samira stood with one foot slightly raised on a small bump in the ground, which he guessed was a part of the buried rock she had used to throw the soldiers back. Now the stone rippled and slithered like a nest of snakes just beneath the carpets and grass, and the soldiers stumbled back from her and from the coiling shapes in the earth.

Zerai moved to Samira’s side with his sword raised as he watched the men from Maqari retreat. The stunned man on the ground slowly recovered, saw his comrades about to leave, and then saw the huge shifting serpents under the carpets, and he too dashed after the others.

“What do you think that was all about?” Zerai asked quietly.

“Retaliation?” Samira kept her eyes on the wall of tents as the last of the soldiers disappeared from view. “If the Daraji woman attacked them last night near here, then maybe the soldiers think she is protecting these people, or that she is one of them.”

“Maybe.” Zerai paused. “Let’s find out.”

He jogged out of the camp, hesitating as he pushed through the tent walls to make sure there were no swords waiting for him on the far side. Then he spotted the handful of soldiers hurrying away through the pavilion grounds, moving from shadow to shadow, and he ran after them.

“What do you think you are doing?” Samira hissed in his ear.

He winced and looked over to see the djinn woman gliding swiftly and eerily through the darkness beside him. “I’m going to see what they know about the Sophirim.”

“It’s too dangerous!”

“Then go back.”

“And let you die? The seer and the healer would never forgive me, and I may still need their help to complete my task.”

Zerai grinned. “Your concern is very touching.”

Moments later he felt hard stones under his boots as they crossed the threshold from the caravan grounds to the city streets. Small brick homes lined with fine cracks stood to their left and right, and the dim lights of candles danced behind the shuttered windows. Up ahead, the soldiers turned left and dashed out of view.

“You should let them go,” Samira said.

“You’re entitled to your opinion, I suppose.” Zerai slid to the corner and peeked around to make sure the Maqari men weren’t waiting for him. They weren’t, but they hadn’t gone far. The six armored men stood in a small knot halfway down the narrow lane, catching their breath and muttering in low voices.

“And now?” the djinn woman whispered.

“Wait. Watch.”

One of the soldiers spoke. The others laughed. They put away their swords and went on talking in low voices.

“Fascinating.” Samira sighed.

“You can leave.”

“Not without you.”

One of the soldiers yelled something at the far end of the lane and the men started ambling away. There was something about the way they moved, the way they fanned out to block the width of the narrow road, that made Zerai reach for his sword.

They’re going after someone. Someone alone. Someone they know they can beat.

He started down the lane after them, shaking off Samira’s hand as she tried to stop him. With his sword held low, he moved quietly along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows, and wishing for one very brief moment that he could move like a djinn.

The soldiers laughed again. Zerai could see a hooded woman among them, surrounded by them, unable to get past them.

This is bad.

He moved faster, his feet sweeping expertly over and around the small pebbles and bits of trash in the darkness that might have made some small sound and betrayed him.

One of the soldiers moved in closer to the woman.

Very bad.

The ring of soldiers tumbled backward as one of the men flew up against the right-hand wall, bounced off the ancient bricks, and slammed back down to the ground. A small avalanche of crushed stone trickled from the brick wall where a large impression now stood surrounded by thousands of tiny cracks.

Zerai froze, staring at the wall.

I was wrong. It’s worse.

“It’s her!” Samira hissed.

Only one of the soldiers glanced back at the sound of her voice. The others were too busy drawing weapons and shouting at each other to attack the empty-handed woman wearing the dark hood.

“Get back!” Zerai yelled. “Everybody get back! Drop your weapons!”

No one listened. One man swung his sword at the hooded woman, and was hurled straight up into the sky, only to come crashing down on the roof of the house beside them. A second man disappeared with a yelp, and Zerai saw him go flying off toward the far end of the lane. Now there was enough room in the road for the falconer to see the woman clad in dark Daraji skirts and bright Daraji necklaces and chains. She grabbed a man by his armor and slammed him down into the paving stones. She grabbed another and smashed him backward through the wall beside her.