On Fire’s Wings (20 page)

But Tahmu had heard nothing of this! He had spies far and wide, in every clan. He had scouts who had ranged to every corner of the country and returned. He had….

Despite the heat, Tahmu suddenly felt a chill. Such people were his, of course, as he was Clan Leader, but Halid commanded them.

One of four things was true, and none of them was pleasant.

Jashemi had been the victim of a cruel joke, one that Terku had gone to great lengths to execute.

Tahmu's scouts and spies were idiots, failing to listen and report properly.

Halid was controlling the information he received from the spies and not reporting it to Tahmu.

And worst of all: Jashemi could be hearing the
kulis
again.

A knot formed in Tahmu's belly. Of the four, the best option was the first, that somehow an elaborate prank was being played on his son. He hoped that was the case, but Jashemi was no fool.

The other three were unthinkable. He passed a hand over his face, wiping away sweat that felt cold to him, and began to compose a reply to his son.

T
he weeks crawled by, and not an hour passed that Jashemi did not think of Kevla. He missed her more than he thought possible.

His discussions with Shali had proven enlightening, and having gotten what information he could from her, Jashemi began to befriend some of the men who were close to his station, Shali's brothers and Terku's Second, a man named Melaan. Melaan seemed to Jashemi at first to be a peculiar choice for a Second. Halid was an enormous bull of a man, heavily muscled, tall, and powerful, if treacherous. Melaan was tall but slender, and seemed perpetually lost in thought.

But if Terku trusts him with so important a position, then there must be something there that I am not seeing,
Jashemi thought as he sat under the stars, sated from the evening meal.

He, Melaan, and Terku's youngest sons Raka and Kelem were all enjoying the slightly inebriated feeling that a full belly often produced. They stared up at the stars, and for a moment Jashemi permitted himself to become lost in their beauty and the old tales: of the First Clan Leader kneeling before the Great Dragon, who dictated how the clans should live; of the eight spirits who guarded the rain and river waters; of the Sand Maiden who tempted the First Clan Leader into lying with her, resulting in, logically enough, the First Clan.

He closed his eyes, wishing he had not thought of the last myth. For it was no Sand Maiden he saw, but Kevla, her face alight, reaching for him. Jashemi took a deep breath and deliberately turned his thoughts away from that dangerous path.

“It is a peaceful night,” he said, “to think that somewhere men are fighting.”

“The stars are above us all,” said Melaan. “They care nothing for our petty joys and quarrels. They shine on death and birth all the same.”

Jashemi turned and regarded him in the dim light. Melaan met his gaze evenly.

“You are quite the philosopher, Melaan,” Jashemi observed.

“I have seen much, my lord,” said Melaan.

Deciding to be daring, Jashemi pressed, “Have you seen armies from another land?”

The uncomfortable silence told him more than any words. Propping himself up on his elbows, Jashemi continued, “I've heard rumors. I know some of what your scouts are reporting. I am the son of a
khashim
, as are all here save you, and you are Terku's Second. I have a right to know what you know.”

Melaan did not reply at once. Raka, the youngest, quipped, “Be careful with Melaan, Jashemi! His bad dreams sour his temper some days.”

A shiver ran through Jashemi. Bad dreams?

“If I have bad dreams,” drawled Melaan, “it is only when I think of either of you leading the
Sa'abah
Clan.”

The two brothers laughed. They were indeed young; their eldest brother had been killed in the same raid that was Jashemi's first, so long ago. There were times when he wondered if his was the hand that had dealt the deadly blow to his future brother-in-law; times when Jashemi wondered if they wondered that, too.

“We have done battle with men who do not call themselves members of any clan,” Melaan admitted. “We have never been able to take prisoners. They seem somehow to be able to imbibe poison once they realize they have lost.”

“Sometimes,” said Kelem, the more sober of the two youths, “they have not lost.”

Again a silence fell, so profound Jashemi could hear the
sa'abahs
snuffling on their leads in the distance.

“I know,” he said slowly, “that you think of me as an outsider. Perhaps even as an enemy. My clan has ridden against yours more than once, and there have been deaths on both sides.” He could sense them listening, and wondered if he dared utter what was in his heart—that he wished that there could be an end to all the fighting, between all the clans. He decided that now was not the time.

“But our clans are now allies through marriage. I am a warrior and the son of a warrior. What concerns my wife's clan concerns me. I would have you confide in me, so that I might be able offer what help I could.”

No one spoke. Jashemi suddenly felt embarrassed and was grateful for the caress of the night air that cooled his cheeks.

“It is difficult for us to trust,” said Melaan at last. “Too much is at stake. You could tell your father what we tell you, and lead a raid against us.”

“I would not slay the father of my wife!” Jashemi was indignant, and the words were the truth. Not even in self-defense would he do such a thing.

“She's just a woman,” Raka said casually.

The anger that shot through Jashemi turned his vision red, and before he realized what he was doing he had seized Raka and was shaking him as a hound worries a hare.

“She is your
sister!
” he cried. “Think you so little of her?”

Melaan and Kelem pulled Jashemi off the startled Raka, and shoved him hard into the baked earth. The air went out of him with a
whoosh
and he braced for the beating.

It did not come. Melaan towered above him, a dark figure against the starlit sky, and Jashemi saw that he had extended an arm to hold Kelem back.

“Either you are more cunning than you appear, or you speak truly,” Melaan said. “Terku adores his daughter, woman though she be. That you come so quickly to her defense, even against her blood brother, speaks well of you. I will talk with my
khashim.
Perhaps it is indeed time for you to be permitted into the inner circle of advisors.”

The next day, Jashemi was summoned to Terku's tent. He was the last to arrive, and as he entered, several men looked at him with varying degrees of mistrust etched plain on their faces.

One of them spoke. “Great
khashim,
I say again, the boy from the House of Four Waters may be no friend to us.”

Terku raised his hand. “I have heard your words, Baram, and given them the attention they deserve. Cease repeating yourself. I have made my decision. Jashemi-kha-Tahmu, will you swear to be my man?” The eyes that peered out of the wrinkled face were bright.

Jashemi sensed a trap. He stood up straighter. “I am the son of a
khashim,
one day to lead the Clan of Four Waters. I am no one's ‘man.' I would, however, come to this circle to listen, to speak truly, and to honor you and your clan.”

Terku's lined face creased into a smile. “A good and true answer, Jashemi. I can ask for no more. Had you agreed, I would never have trusted you.”

He had passed some sort of test. He thanked the Great Dragon, for he sensed that what he would learn would affect everyone in Arukan…and perhaps beyond. Unbidden, the milk-skinned, sand-haired man came into his thoughts. He forced the face away. The circle made room for him, and he sat on the rug that covered the sand. Terku turned to Melaan, who began to speak.

“We have always thought that we were alone,” said Melaan. Clearly, he was restating what the others already knew for Jashemi's benefit. “We were wrong. Some of the more northerly clans, such as the Clan of the Mountain and the Warcry Clan, have reportedly been attacked by men unlike any they have ever seen. They are pale, with light skin and eyes. Sometimes their hair is pale as well.”

Jashemi's breath caught in his throat, but he was careful that his expression reflect the surprise he was no doubt expected to show, not the horror of certainty he felt.

“They crash upon us like an avalanche from the mountains, and the clans they have attacked have been all but destroyed. They do not take water or goods, but slaughter merely for the purpose of killing. They take prisoners, and force them to fight in their army. The few Arukani who have escaped capture or death have fled their own lands, fearing recapture by this dreadful enemy. This is painful to these clans; unlike us, they have a bond with their land.”

Jashemi nodded his comprehension. The
Sa'abah
Clan was nomadic, but he had spent all his life in the same place, as had his father before him. As would his son, should he have one. He was already pining for home after a short time away; he could not conceive of being frightened enough to flee the land which had succored him.

“They have weapons such as we have never seen. Though they have taken many clansmen, we have never been able to take one of them prisoner, to interrogate him; they ingest poison before they can be captured. But we managed to take this.”

He gestured, and a servant approached bearing a wooden box. Melaan opened the box to reveal a piece of folded fabric. The other men leaned in; clearly, they had not seen this yet either. Jashemi licked lips suddenly gone dry.

“It is their standard,” Melaan said, “the symbol of their Emperor.” Grimly, the Second unfolded the fabric, and Jashemi's heart spasmed.

Prancing on a field of white, stained by the blood of the fallen, was a graceful creature that appeared to be a combination of many other beings. It was the general shape of a
liah,
with cloven feet and a single, curved horn in its forehead. It was covered in light brown fur, save where scales encrusted its back and neck. The tail of a
simmar
curved around it, and a long mane streamed in the wind. The slight, tufted beard of a goat adorned its chin, and its eyes were large and brown. A gold chain encircled its neck.

For a moment, Jashemi couldn't even see, so overcome with horror was he. He blinked hard, swallowing to force down the bitter fluid that suddenly rose in his throat.

While the craftsmanship of the flag was admirable, it didn't even come close to capturing the beauty of the creature as it had appeared to him while he slept. But there it was, complete with a golden chain, which in his dreams had trailed off into shadow.

Now he knew why he had felt such a dreadful sense of impending danger when he had seen the beast. It was the symbol of the unknown Emperor, who seemed poised to descend upon Arukan with all the merciless force of a desert storm.

A name came to him.
Ki-lyn.
Somehow, he understood that this was the name of the creature. Where had he learned that? Had he heard it in his dream?

Jashemi stared at the ki-lyn, as did all the other men gathered. No, not quite all the other men. Jashemi felt a prickling at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. Slowly, he lifted his head to see Melaan, Terku's Second, regarding him with knowing eyes.

 

Akana, fourth son of the
khashim
of the Hawk Clan, crouched low over his laboring horse. He gasped for air as the beast did, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, his mind almost numbed with horror at what he had witnessed.

They had come with unbelievable swiftness in the night, pouring down the mountains in staggering numbers. They would not have been seen at all if it were not for a full, revealing moon that exposed them. Still, even with that much of a warning, the outcome was inevitable.

That they were even men was uncertain. The warriors wore metal covering their bodies, metal that clung to them and moved like the flow of a river. They had long, sharp swords that seemed almost too big for a man to wield. Some wore head coverings of metal that completely encased their heads; others let their strange, milky faces and pale hair be seen, causing still more fear. The beasts they rode had no proper tusks, but came in a staggering variety of hues. They, too, wore the flowing metal, and they were completely unafraid of battle.

Arrows did little damage, and the army moved so quickly that soon the Hawk Clan was frantically engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The weapons of scimitar and spear, wielded by men who had not even time to mount their own horses, were of little avail.

The
khashim
had found his youngest son in the furor and had practically thrown the boy onto a horse.

“Ride!” he had screamed to his son. “Ride and get help, or at least warn the nearest clan!”

“No, Father! I want to fight!”

His father then did something he had never done before; he struck his beloved youngest child across the face. Akana fell at the force of the blow.

“You are the only chance we have!” he bellowed. “Ride,
kulis
take you!”

And, sobbing, Akana obeyed what he knew was his father's last wish. There was no time to saddle the beast, only time to leap onto the horse's back and cling to its increasingly sweat-soaked hide and ride into the desert, ride as if the earth had cracked open and all the
kulis
in the world were clamoring at his heels.

Akana had no sense of time, no idea how long the horse had been running at a full gallop, but it was slowing now. He screamed at it, he who had never raised his voice above a murmur when talking to animals, and kicked its ribs until he was certain he had left bruises.

He felt a wet warmth on his cheek as the horse blew, and wiped the foam away. The horse's sides heaved between his legs, and part of him ached for what he was demanding of the creature.

But he saw his brother fall again in his mind's eye, slashed nearly in two by the impossibly enormous swords. He saw the flood of enemies descending, heard the cries of the women. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain that no member of the Hawk Clan would be spared.