Mistress Of The Ages (In Her Name, Book 9) (35 page)

“Today is a good day to die,” Alena-Khan murmured as she drew her sword. She, Drakh-Nur, Ka’i-Lohr, and Dara-Kol would stand beside Keel-Tath should enemy boarders reach the bridge.
 

“I have no intention of dying,” Keel-Tath snapped. “Not today.” To Dara-Kol she said, “Prepare the fleet for jump on my command to a low orbit position over the palace.”

“Yes, mistress!”

“We are sending no boarders across?” Drakh-Nur, holding his war hammer at the ready, looked disappointed.

“Not this time, my friend,” Keel-Tath told him. “They attack under her banner, but we shall win their honor to our own.” In one stroke, she might be able to convert thousands of warriors to her cause.
 

Ka’i-Lohr gaped. “You planned this?”

She answered his question with a quick smile. “Let us say that I had high hopes. But we have yet to win this challenge of steel and blood to gain their honor. The price to be paid will yet be dear.”

Everyone looked up as a Desh-Ka priest appeared on the bridge in their midst.
 

“Li’an-Dar,” Alena-Khan said. “Why have you abandoned your post?” At Keel-Tath’s questioning glance, she quickly added, “Since the war began, we have always maintained a sentry in the Great Wastelands to watch over Ka’i-Nur. Today’s watch fell to Li’an-Dar.”

The priest, who was covered from head to toe with a thick coating of dust and sand, knelt before Keel-Tath and saluted. “I bring tidings, mistress,” he said in a breathless voice. “The fortress of Ka’i-Nur is under attack!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Tara-Khan knelt upon the rocks and gravel at the bottom of the arroyo as the sky above them rippled with streaks of emerald, crimson, and cyan. Flashes and flares from damaged and dying ships strobed through the failing darkness, casting eerie shadows across the arroyo even as the first faint glimmer of sunrise shone on the horizon.

To either side, spreading out in a circle of which he was but a part, were the robed ones who had powers to bend the world to their will. Builders, healers, porters of water, armorers, and gardeners were joined as one through the power of their blood, their bleeding palms clasped one to another in an unbroken chain to forge a single entity. It was an ancient magic about which Tara-Khan had read in one of the scrolls, long forgotten and likely not practiced since early in the Second Age.

The robed ones on either side of him offered their bloody palms, and he clasped them in his own. He gasped and his body spasmed as a tremendous jolt of raw power surged through him like a cascade of lightning. His mouth fell open in a silent scream as he fought to control it, and he realized in that moment that it was a far different thing to read of something such as this, to know how it was done, than to actually do it. Steam rose from his skin and the robed ones to either side groaned with pain, but they did not let go. The circle remained unbroken.

At last, he began to gain control of the ocean of power that now filled him. With the force of his mind, the roiling sea was becalmed. The pain faded, and his body cooled to its normal temperature. Focusing now on what must be done, he pictured in his mind the stretch of desert beyond the river from whence they all had come. Great dunes of sand lay there, having shifted with the winds back and forth across the wastes over countless millennia. But the morning air this day was still, the sand undisturbed. In his mind’s eye, a breeze arose, blowing from the direction of the dawn. Grains of sand began to turn and roll, then took flight as the breeze freshened, became stronger. The breeze grew until it was a gusting wind, wresting sheets of sand from the dunes. The wind grew greater still, until the upper layers of the dunes were stripped away by a howling gale.
 

The warriors who stood guard around the circle shifted uncomfortably as they saw the blood red line of sunrise along the horizon blotted out by a titanic cloud. The dust storm was leagues in breadth as it howled across the river, then swept through and over the tributaries. Dark and forbidding, it billowed and shifted like a living thing as it raced toward them.
 

Tara-Khan felt it take on a life of its own, the act of creation complete and the power of the robed ones no longer necessary to sustain it. With a shuddering breath, he withdrew his mind from the beast of nature and let go the hands of those beside him. “It is time,” he called out, his voice hoarse, his tongue and mouth dry as if he had been eating the very sand that was hurtling toward him. Pulling on his gauntlets, he got to his feet, as did the robed ones. The warriors quickly formed into ranks near the end of the arroyo, the robed ones behind them. Each put their hands on the shoulders of the one in front of them. “Remember,” Tara-Khan shouted over the rising wind as he took his place at the head of the group, “should you become separated, keep the wind to your back. Let it help you onward to Ka’i-Nur.” He paused, looking at the faces of the unkempt, ragtag outcasts who were about to make history. “May thy Way be long and glorious!”

“
Keel-Tath!
” They shouted as one, their voices echoing off the arroyo walls.

With a nod, Tara-Khan turned away from the wind and toward the fortress. Warriors held on to each of his shoulders, and those behind them did the same. The wind was now so strong that he could barely hold his place, and the back of his neck stung from the sand that slammed into him. With one last look over his shoulder, he saw the thick cloud of dust swarm up the arroyo like water suddenly released from a huge dam.

When the front of the dust cloud hit, he and the others were driven forward. Some of the robed ones and even a few of the warriors cried out, but none gave way to fear. Entirely blind now, their exposed skin battered by the sand, they let the wind guide them just as Tara-Khan had said. Shuffling and stumbling, the group moved up the sloping V-cut that was the end of the arroyo and onto the barren rocky slope at the foot of the long dead volcano upon which squatted Ka’i-Nur. Their eyes squeezed tightly shut, they sucked in shallow breaths through strips of cloth tied over their mouths and noses as they moved forward.

Tara-Khan, though his eyes were closed like the others, could still see with perfect clarity. He ranged ahead with his second sight, guiding his charges unerringly through the huge rock formations, their edges razor sharp, that rose from the earth like the teeth of some unimaginably huge predator. The fortress, a glowing, hulking presence in his mind’s eye, grew slowly but steadily closer.
 

***

Standing at his post in the tower above the main gate of the fortress of Ka’i-Nur, Ul-An’te stared out into the Great Wastelands. More of his kin stood watch in similar towers along the walls, watching for any sign of attack. He wore standard ceremonial armor, rather than the silver armor given those who had been sent forth into battle. His duty of providing warning for those in the city below could in one way be seen as being of the greatest importance, but it was in reality more a tradition than necessity. All knew that Keel-Tath would never mount a surprise attack here, for to do so would go against her Way and sense of honor. And for that foolish belief, she would lose the war and have her head mounted on a pike, or be cast still alive into the flames, just as her father before her.

Ul-An’te did not much care either way. To him, Keel-Tath was simply an enemy of his kind, an enemy of his mistress, and if given the chance he would have torn the white-haired warrior limb from limb, just as he would any other enemy.

But that chance had not yet come. He was very young, and as yet unblooded beyond the confines of the arena where he had done well, but not well enough. The others of his birth cohort had gone off to war already, which had shamed him, but he knew his call would come soon. He yearned for the chance to face the enemies of Ka’i-Nur, and worried that the war would be over before he could kill his share of the little warriors. His great hands flexed of their own accord as he imagined himself wading into a tide of the enemy, slashing and crushing them to death, or scything through them in bloody waves with his sword.

He fought to keep his eyes focused on the desert and not the skies above, for the greatest battle of the war was now raging in the heavens. He could feel the elation and bloodlust of his fellow warriors in the Bloodsong and yearned to be with them. But other than an occasional glance, he remained true to his duty, boring as it was, and kept watch on the seared wastes around the fortress, hoping to at least catch sight of a genoth with his keen vision. It was rare to see one here, of course, for they seldom strayed near the fortress, but he had heard one calling in the night. He had often dreamed of killing such a beast and taking its eyestones as trophies, but that was yet another unrealized dream.

Something, an indistinct movement, roused him from his daydreaming. The thin line of sunrise, like a bloody gash across the sky, had disappeared. With a frown, he leaned forward against the wall surrounding his post, as if that could help him discern what was happening. He could see
something
moving. Whatever it was must have been huge, like a formation of clouds skimming along the ground.

Then realization struck: it was a sandstorm. He had never seen one with his own eyes, but knew that they sometimes arose from the dune sea to scour the desert. Were it not for the builders who maintained the fortress, the walls would have long ago been pitted and scarred, perhaps even worn down to the foundation by such storms. But against the backdrop of the great war that was afoot, the storm was a trifle that need not be reported, for it would not affect the fortress or its inhabitants. It would, however, need to be suffered by those who stood watch on the walls. He could not retreat to the comfort of the indoors.

The prospect of some discomfort actually thrilled him. Ul-An’te braced himself as the storm descended and the billowing cloud consumed the fortress, gratified that the rest of his watch would not be filled with utter boredom.

***

The distance to Ka’i-Nur was two leagues, perhaps a bit more. To Tara-Khan and those following him, it may as well have been halfway across the world. They struggled up the side of the volcano, now staggering on their feet, now on all fours, their hands and feet scrabbling through the pumice that tore at their skin. The sand was even more vicious, tearing at their bodies like a cloud of rapacious carnivores, stripping away the black glaze of the metal armor and the smooth finish of the leatherite of the warriors. The robed ones suffered worse, for the sand blasted at their already threadbare clothing, opening holes that left even more skin exposed. By the time Tara-Khan and the others had gone a quarter of the way to their objective, every one of them was bleeding from neck, scalp, back and hands. But if any complained, their words or cries were carried away by the howling wind. None stopped, none fell out of the grueling march. None gave up.

Tara-Khan kept them moving as fast as he dared. The climb would have been daunting without the sand, but with it their trek was little less than torture. He guided his charges around the larger obstacles as best he could, but he could do nothing to prevent those behind him from tripping and falling over the smaller ones. As the march went on, the formation began to fall apart. Those who fell lost their guides, and so they and all those still behind them had to fend for themselves. Watching with his second sight, he was gratified to see that they did as he had instructed, keeping their backs to the wind and letting it drive them forward up the mountain slope.

Onward they went, and if anything the storm’s power grew. Tara-Khan could feel the sand flaying the skin from the back of his neck and the parts of his ankles and feet not covered by the laces of the sandals he wore. The pain was excruciating, but he did not allow himself to falter or slow. If anything, he picked up the pace. The sooner they reached the fortress, the sooner they could find shelter. He would rather face off against a cohort of Ka’i-Nur warriors than be stripped to the bone by the sand.

After what seemed countless hours, they reached their goal. Tara-Khan and those still with him flattened themselves against the cold obsidian of the walls of Ka’i-Nur. With his second sight, he saw that his other followers had scattered. Most were on track and would soon join them, but some had wandered hopelessly off course. He needed them all if his plan was to have any chance of success.

“Move to your left until you reach the gate,” he screamed over the wind into the ear of one of the warriors still with him. “Use the wall as your guide. Gather the others as you go!”
 

With a brief nod, the warrior began to shuffle off to the left. After he had gone two paces he had disappeared from sight into the swirling sand.

Tara-Khan then stepped through space to where a small group of robed ones was huddled, unmoving, in the lee of one of the enormous stone teeth thrust up from the ground. While his squinted eyes could barely see, he had no trouble smelling the blood. The backs of their shredded robes were stained with crimson. “Come,” he shouted. “To stay here is to die!” He helped them to their feet and got them moving, his heart breaking with the agony he knew they must be suffering. “You have not far to go! Keep the wind at your backs and move up the mountain!”
 

He stayed with them until he was satisfied they would reach the fortress before he flitted from
here
to
there
to direct another group to its destination.

By the time he was done gathering the stragglers and guiding them to the main gate, his face and neck were a bloody mess and he was afraid the sand would rip through his eyelids to blind him for true. But he reminded himself that he was a priest of the Desh-Ka, even if one without a collar, and those with him, especially the robed ones, were not. He had no right to complain.
 

One last effort of will brought him back to the walls of the fortress. Huddling with the senior warriors, he said through the coughing that wracked his lungs, “I will deal with the guards at the gatehouse, then open the gate. You,” he nodded at the senior most warrior, “will lead the others through. You must run as fast as you can straight to the portal at the center of the fortress! Stop for nothing and no one. Our battle is not to be fought up here, but down below. I will deal with any guards that may try to stop you. Do you understand?”