Dawn of the Flame Sea (16 page)

For a moment, he felt regret that the coming battle would bloody and trample such unexpected beauty. But everyone was streaming to the right, where a great curved structure had indeed been carved out of the cliff face on that side. There were shallow ramps, broad steps, and planters with fruiting bushes—edible, from the way some of the passing warriors did a double take and snatched at their bounty, none of them hesitant.

There were columns, too, great carved pillars rising into pointed arches whose edges were etched with scrolling vines. Granite was a hard stone, difficult to work and carve. Even without their trading spies' knowledge, Kuruk could have guessed that the golden people had done all of this somehow. They had that kind of power about them.

They had also, he noted, filled in the archways where the doors had been on the ground floor. He had visited a few times before, always in disguise, but the change was obvious, for the doors that had once stood open to either side in front of alcoves were now seamless walls just a body's length into the tunnels. The stairs on either side to the upper level were no longer there, either. If the changes had been made in a hurry, in the span of a single night, then that argued for a great deal of power. Kuruk stopped and frowned, wondering if they had really brought enough animadjet.

A golden figure appeared on the upper level. The appearance made most of the others surge forward, anticipating a fight. At this distance, it was hard to tell gender, until the figure spoke. Some sort of sound-based anima had to be in effect, however, for Kuruk heard every word.

“Welcome to Ijesh, the city of bountiful blessings,” the woman stated. Kuruk recognized her voice and made his way forward in case the tajet of the combined war bands wanted confirmation of who it was. “If you have come here in peace to talk, to trade, to visit, and to go away peacefully again, then you are welcome here. If, however, you have come to fight, to make war, to try to steal our belongings and take our people away as slaves, then you must leave now, while all of you are still alive and unharmed.”

Taje Barrek shouted something in return. It bounced off the hard stone walls, garbled. Kuruk could only make out a few words, something that sounded like a challenge, something about hiding and the balcony. The closer he got to the leaders, the more he had to nudge and then push aside the others. A few glared at him, but they did give way.

“I think not,” the golden woman replied. “In fact, I think if I were to go down there among you that you would try to kill me. After all, every one of you is armed with some sort of weapon, whether it be a bow, an axe, a spear, a blade . . . or a spell. I do not see bundles of trade goods. I do not see herd animals brought for sale. I do not see anything resembling a polite, civilized group of visitors. All I see are a bunch of brutes who envy what others have and do not grasp that if they are civilized, they can learn how to have such things for themselves without risking their lives.”

One of the other tajet spoke up, the large, muscular woman, Redra. Her voice, Kuruk could hear, though it helped he was now getting closer. “And who are you to speak for the people of this place? You are pointy eared and pale haired, with weird eyes! You are not a human!”

“True, I am not human. I am Fae. But the humans of this place, who found this place wherein I and my companions dwell, have accepted my leadership.”

“So then you are this Djin woman?” Taje Garrin shouted, his voice echoing off the pillars and curved walls.

“Djin-taje,” she corrected. “I have been given the title of Taje Djin-taje-ul, but it only applies to those who live in the Flame Sea area. You may address me as Djin-taje. Unless, of course, you wish to join our tribe and swear your service and your allegiance to me? Is that why you have come? You would be welcome to join us if you pledge to be peaceful, cooperative, and helpful, contributing to the tribe as a whole, as well as for yourselves.”

“Swear ourselves to
you
? I think not! We will knock you down from there and take your tribe and all of its spoils as we scrape your blood from our sandals!” Barrek retorted.

Now close enough to see details, Kuruk was amazed to see the woman Djin-taje lean her elbows on the stone railing separating them and sag her cheek onto one palm, as if she was unconcerned about the might of the warriors and animadjet gathered in front of her. Djin-taje looked merely disappointed, perhaps even bored.

“I
really
wish you wouldn't say things like that,” she said. “The more you argue and swear you will fight my people, the more you claim you intend to hurt any of us, the less inclined
I
will be to stop Death from falling upon you.”

That caused a stir in the crowd. Kuruk moved a little closer to Taje Barrek, arriving in time to see him frown and hear him mutter, “Oh, right. The really tall male with the painted skin, who calls himself Death.” Raising his voice, he called out, “If you mean that stick of a man with the drawings on his skin, then by all means, send him out! I will take care to break him into several pieces myself, just for you to watch how he'll suffer!”

“You also should not . . .” She paused for a moment, touched the base of her ear in an odd gesture, then continued. “Sorry—you also should not say such things. He might hear you and take offense.”

“Ha!” Taje Redra scoffed, raising one of her spiked clubs to point at the woman high up on the carved, columned wall. “You think we should be afraid of a twig?”

Djin-taje straightened and pointed past the crowd. “You can always ask him yourself. Here he comes.”

Chapter Ten

Following the line of her arm, Kuruk squinted. It was hard to see; his taje stood in the way. Glancing around, the scout leader moved over to one of the boxes, its upper edge waist high to him, one that was large and held several bushes and some sort of young fruit tree. Climbing up onto the broad stone ledge, he clasped the sapling's trunk and balanced, shading his eyes with his other hand.

Though he was no Tureg, his vision was good enough to spot a tiny black spot. One that grew larger and larger . . . flying faster, he realized, than the golden figures had flown at his scouting team several years ago. Indeed, the figure rocked backward from much farther away, a motion Kuruk belatedly realized was some means of slowing down, for the dark-haired, dark-clothed man stood on a pair of golden half eggs like Djin-taje and the unnamed golden man had used. He carried a large bundle on his back, but it was definitely the man named Ban, Death. The colors sketched across his deep-tanned skin and his all-black trousers, boots, and vest were identification enough.

A crack of thunder reached them, though there wasn't even any haze in the blue sky overhead, thanks to the drying winds of low summer. The dark-clad man swept into shooting range, but the archers hesitated; he was almost directly overhead, and any arrow that missed such a swiftly gliding target would only fall back on their neighbors. Within moments, he reached the upper level unmolested.

That
was when the archers let loose. The twang of strings and the hiss of fletching were met with . . . the same phenomenon as years before. They stopped midflight, as if stuck in clear mud. A few more fired a second round, with the same results as before.

Kuruk watched the tall man dismount and do something with the egg halves. He shed the pack from his back off to the side, then dropped into what had to be a kneeling position. Even though the golden-haired, golden-clothed woman was tall for a female, he was almost as tall as her when kneeling; his head and shoulders could be seen above the railing of the balcony, and his black-clad legs and torso through the stone bannisters supporting it. Kuruk could just hear the man's voice, for it was not being amplified.

“You seem to be under attack, my lady.” There was a hint of dry humor in his tone, though Kuruk could not see his face at that angle.

“Yes, it
does
seem we are under attack,” Djin-taje agreed. Her words rolled out from the balcony. “They have even shot arrows at you and me. Now, I have advised them not to fight, to instead join us in peaceful brotherhood. Their leaders have—”

“Enough talk!” Redra roared, brandishing one of her clubs. “Animadjet! Bring down those shields!”

Four more golden figures stepped into view, two males and two females. They raised their hands as the scores of anima-wielders on Kuruk's side started shouting and casting . . . and the spells one and all fizzled, turning from balls of fire and columns of whirling sand into sparkling, white spheres that soared upward and passed right into the quartet's bodies. Some of the archers fired again, hoping that their arrows would also pass through the invisible mud. Again the shafts stuck a length or so from the edge of the balcony. The air looked a little bit like the thorns of a cactus.

Seeing their powers stripped midattack, the animadjet stopped trying. So did the archers. A ripple of unease moved through the crowd, expressed in murmurs, grimaces, worried frowns, and shifting bodies. In the quiet, Djin-taje spoke again.

“As I was saying, their leaders have declared their intent to slay us and take everything for themselves,” she stated. “I keep trying to get them to understand that dealing with us in the ways of peace and cooperation is in their best interests, but they refuse.”

“That's because you don't belong here!” one of the other tajet bellowed, a tall fellow with streaks of gray in his dark, frizzy hair. He pointed his bronze spear at the balcony. “You are not one of us, with your golden eyes and your pointy ears! You have no right to tell us what to do! Leave, or we will destroy you!”

“They seem incapable of learning your lesson, Djin-taje. Since you called me back from my travels, I presume you want them killed?”

Standing as he was on the bush-box edge, Kuruk had a good view of the woman's face. She looked sad. Regretful, even. Turning to face the railing, she braced her hands on the edge of it. “I am disinclined by nature to order the deaths of anyone—even aggressive idiots. But I fear these people will not learn which acts are wise and which acts are foolish, until they learn those lessons the hard way.”

“Oh, now you
insult
us from behind your shields and your stone walls?” Barrek called up. “Come down here and fight us yourself! Stop using the anima to hide behind, like a child cowering behind its mother's leg!”

“As you can see, they will not learn. I give you the ground rules for this engagement, Ban-taje,” Djin-taje stated. The man named Death straightened, rising to tower behind and to one side of her as he, too, turned to look out over the valley and its many invaders. “Do not strike the first blow. Do not attack those who run away. Attack only those who attack you first . . . and you may attack those who seem to run away only to turn and try to strike at you again.

“They each wear the mark of their tribe somewhere on their person,” she added. Her words made Kuruk frown, wary. “Try to let at least one of each run back home alive so that they can carry the tale. The Flame Sea will trade with anyone who comes in peace, stays in peace, and leaves in peace. This is the path of wisdom, for there is no need for us to fight one another. Those who try to raise hand or spell against us will only suffer—and suffer painfully for their idiocy. Thus speaks Taje Djin-taje-ul.”

“As you wish.” Without further word, he vaulted the railing and dropped to the ground. Clad in black leather boots, black fitted trousers, and a sleeveless vest, he landed with an audible thump. Straightening, Ban stepped forward immediately, with no sign of injury or pain from his landing. He acted no differently after the five-length fall than if he had merely dropped a single length of his body; such a matter-of-fact attitude unnerved Kuruk.

The warriors had not been able to get beneath the balcony because of yet more unseen shields. Those forces rippled as he stepped through, shimmering like a heat wave for a moment. Tall enough to tower head and shoulders over most of the men and women gathered for this battle, he strode up to the first of the warriors. The man clenched his bronze sword and breathed hard, clearly gearing himself up for an attack.

“I suggest you run back home,” Ban stated blandly.

“
Rrraaaugh!
” the warrior screamed, and swung hard for the man's neck. Fast as a blink, Ban threw up his hand, his lean arm muscles bulging into whipcord strength. The sword clanged against his wrist, in utter contrariness to how brown-skinned flesh should behave when struck by the polished bronze blade. No, not just flesh alone, the scout leader realized: a faint shimmer of magic decorated the tall man's forearms from wrists to elbows.

Ban gave him just two fast beats from Kuruk's heart before counterstriking with his other hand. One moment, his arm was at his side; the next, his fingers were pulling back from the warrior, his skin stained with blood. Gagging, the warrior dropped. The man twisted as he fell, giving Kuruk a glimpse of wide, frightened eyes and a ragged hole that had somehow been ripped through his throat.

“Anyone else wish to attack?” Ban asked lightly, stepping over the choking, bleeding, dying man.

With matching roars and shouts, several more thrust and swung at him. Most were deflected as the man twisted and moved faster than a fighting cobra, but not all. Kuruk flinched at the sight of a long bronze blade jerking through the leather covering his back, the spear having been thrust through his lungs from the front. Only his forearms had been protected by magic, not his chest.

“I got him—I got him!” the spear wielder shouted, grinning in joy. The others pulled back a little, acknowledging the killing blow.

“You should not have done that,” Djin-taje told him from her perch above the action. Kuruk watched the tall man flex his shoulders as she spoke. “You will only annoy him by doing things like that.”

One drawing-covered arm smacked down, breaking the wooden shaft. Grabbing the stump, Ban pulled the blade out of his chest. The others quickly stepped back, shocked and wary that the tall man had not yet fallen over.

Flinging the broken spearhead at its wielder, Ban didn't pay attention to the impaled, choking man. Instead, he . . . stripped off his vest? Kuruk stared in disbelief, then gaped at the wound. Though blood had spilled, the wound itself was sealing rapidly, unnerving the scout leader beyond words. He clung to the sapling, watching the stranger turning his garment around so that he could examine the holes. The wound sealed fully, and the blood vanished like it was either evaporating, or being absorbed back into his skin.

“I liked this vest,” Ban stated, turning it to examine the other hole while the humans around him pressed back, wide-eyed and wary. “Trousers are annoying, if necessary for travel . . . but I
liked
this vest. I will not put up with it being damaged again. If you really want me to fight you, then I must insist on changing into my war clothes.
Sartorlagen!
”

Kuruk flinched at the sharp-spoken word. The black vest and black trousers vanished, replaced in a flash of light by the black folds of a cloth kilt. The pleats were different from the straighter, ribbonlike lengths of wool and leather Kuruk was used to wearing, and he had no idea how the man had managed the change in less than an eyeblink, but there he stood, in boots, kilt, and nothing else but a scrap of leather holding his long, dark hair in a braid.

“Enough of this nonsense! Tajet, attack!” Redra ordered, and charged. Lesser warriors hastily moved out of her way, opening up a widening corridor between the various tribal leaders and the tall man named Death. Most of the dozen tajet raced in after her, including Barrek. Kicking up the broken shaft of the spear that had impaled him, Ban whirled and smacked it into the warrior woman.

Hearing her ribs crack, Kuruk flinched. She screamed in pain, and the painted warrior jabbed the broken end of his weapon into her abdomen, just below her ribs. Wheezing, unable to fully breathe, she dropped her clubs and clutched at the spear shaft. Ban stooped to grab her clubs—and Charag charged in from the side, war axe swinging high. It bit down into the man's arm and neck, severing them. The drawing-painted body collapsed, the arm flopped, and the head rolled a few feet, blood gushing onto the granite stones lining the ground in front of the curved pillars and their balcony.

For a moment, the scout leader was proud of his fellow warrior, but in the silence, a dry-voiced warning floated over their heads.

“And you
really
should not have done
that
.”

Something in her voice made Kuruk shiver in dread.

Barrek scooped up the dead man's head by its braid, making it dance wildly, splattering blood from the severed neck. “You do not rule here! We do! As soon as we get past your anima, we will do to
you
what we have done to—what . . . ?”

The head vanished from his grip midword, midswing. Ban's body stood up, head reattached, arm reattached, blood completely gone from the ground. He carried only the one club now, and he whirled and slammed the spiked club into Barrek's arm, ripping off chunks of muscles. Ban kept spinning, far enough to slam his empty hand into the Circle Fire leader's stomach like he had slammed the broken spear shaft into the now-dying Redra's.

A second, harder thrust of his arm angled it upward. Up inside Taje Barrek's chest. The leader blinked in shock, his lips parted in pain, but only blood bubbled out. A hard jerk extracted the taller man's arm. His fingers were clenched around something reddish and lumpy. It twitched rhythmically, bleeding in spurts. Horrified, Kuruk realized the lump was his leader's dying heart.

“You
do not
threaten Djin-taje,” Ban—no, Death—growled, his tone harsh. Angry. Turning his painted face, he eyed the pale-faced Charag for a long moment, then flung the dripping organ at the big man.

The heart bounced off his shoulder and flopped. Shrieking, Charag turned and ran. He wasn't the only one to try to escape; a few broke and turned tail as well. They pushed at the stunned crowd to get out of their way, but the others didn't move. They stared in awe, in horror, but were not yet a target. Death spun and flung the spiked club at Charag. It
thocked
into his head and spine, dropping the warrior-scout to the stone-paved ground. Death turned back to face the others, raised his bloodied hand, and pointed at some of the warriors who had attacked him.

“You struck me . . . and
you
struck me . . .”

Someone else threw something at the painted man. Death raised his hand to stop it, and it burst on contact. A goat's bladder, filled with oil. Its wielder flung a torch as well, shouting, “He can't kill us if he's nothing but ashes! Fire can stop
all
healing magics!”

A burning brand flipped through the air, aimed at the painted man's head. Death caught the burning torch. He turned, looking up at the balcony. The pungent smell of earth oil wafted over the valley, which explained its dark color. Kuruk could not see his face, but he could read the flex and sag of his muscles and could guess the tall man's expression was asking the question,
Are they really this stupid?

“Ban-taje cannot be killed.” Djin-taje's words checked the warriors before they could charge or perhaps flee. “Even my people, the Fae, have been unable to find a way. For his own reasons, he listens to me. This makes me the only being who can stop him, if I choose to do so. I suggest you apologize and leave. I will instruct Ban to let you leave, if you choose wisdom and apology over violence and stupidity.”