The White Dragon (14 page)

Zarien whirled away from the sight. He dropped his
stahra
and fell to his knees, retching violently again and again. The world faded away as nausea seized his body, his breath, his reflexes.

When he finally stopped, he rested on his hands and knees. His head felt heavy. The air was sticky and foul. Spots swam before his eyes. The partly-digested meal that his stomach had just surrendered now assumed the horror of his surroundings.

I'll never eat onions again
, he thought in a daze, his mind shying away from the bloodbath he was afraid to look at again.
 

He tried to blink away the blurriness in his vision. Something wet dropped onto his cheeks. That's when he realized his eyes were watering.

He drew in a steadying breath—and smelled it all again.

No, no, no...

"May the gods have mercy, may the winds guide me, may the waters be calm and my sails be strong," he prayed mindlessly, the familiar words pouring out of his mouth in a rush. "May the current carry me far... May I... I..." His mind clouded. Flies swarmed around the dead. A river of drying blood stained the harsh rocks of the dryland.

"
Sharifar!"
he cried, alone and afraid.

Someone groaned. A low, weak, pained sound.

Zarien leapt to his feet, poised to run.

Another groan. A slight movement from a body lying face down, just the faintest turn of the head.

They're not all dead.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt. His teeth were chattering. He clenched his jaw. His hands were shaking. Should he help or should he run?
 

Think. Who are they?
 

He forced himself to study the slain bodies. He finally noticed the wavy-edged daggers lying among them, along with the
yahr
. He knew what a
shir
was. Everyone knew, even those who'd never seen one before. Now he saw the black leggings and tunics, too. Presumably their tangled
jashareen
had originally been red, though they were so blood-soaked now that he couldn't be sure.

Assassins.

Zarien didn't want to get involved in anything to do with assassins. Or their remains.

His breath was rasping through his clenched teeth. He brushed at his eyes and swallowed hard.
 

He flinched when the figure that had groaned now moved again. An arm fumbled briefly in the dirt, as if its owner were seeking purchase to rise or roll over. The body bore a leather harness and a sword sheathed at its back. That was unusual.

Zarien realized that this man's clothes weren't black. They were the rough homespun of an ordinary
shallah
. The left sleeve had escaped a complete drenching in blood. It still revealed its true pale color, albeit dirty and dusty.

Six assassins and an armed
shallah
, all dead or nearly dead after a terrible fight... So close to the stronghold of Kiloran's enemy... Hope suddenly filled Zarien's heart.
 

Josarian?

He leaped forward, heedless of the blood, making his way past the dead assassins. Without hesitation now, he bent over the
shallah's
body, took his shoulders in a firm grip, and gently rolled him onto his side.

"Josari—"

"
Argh!"

"Sorry!"

The man's lean face was screwed up in pain. His long black hair was filthy—sweat, dust, blood, mud. His eyes were squeezed shut as he muttered, "Darfire..." His deep voice was thin, his breath harsh. He rolled a little further onto his back and pressed a hand against his side. Zarien looked down and saw that he was bleeding from a wound beneath his ruined tunic. The rest of him looked terrible, too. Cuts, burns, bruises, blood, scars...

Scars... What in the Fires is
that?
 

There was a huge, elaborate scar on the man's chest. Zarien could see it through the shreds of the tunic. Why did someone do that to him? And surely it wasn't a battle wound? It was too regular, too patterned. It almost looked like the marks the Kints made on their loads of cargo....

The dryland seemed to tilt as Zarien realized who this was.

Tansen.

Except for Josarian, no one in Sileria was more famous than Tansen, the Firebringer's bloodbrother, the great warrior who carried two Kintish swords...
And a brand carved onto his chest by the gods of Kinto.
Trying to be gentle, Zarien rolled Tansen just a little further, all the way onto his back... until the movement revealed the evidence that confirmed the warrior's identity: He had been lying on his second sword, sheathed at his left side.

Two swords. The brand on his chest. Six attacking assassins dead around him.

Oh, yes. You're Tansen.

But he was near death now, already sailing toward that shore which had no other shore.
 

"I will tow you back," Zarien promised him.
 

At the sound of his voice, the dark eyes flickered open. Tansen looked dazed. "Wh... Who—"

"I'm Zarien. I will help you."
 

"Where..." He tried to lick cracked lips. His tongue had the whitened look of someone who'd gone too long without water.

"I'll get you some water." Zarien spotted a satchel lying nearby and realized, from the Kintish symbols on it, that it must be Tansen's. "Is there a waterskin in there?"

"Where..."

Zarien looked around again, his mind racing. When these six assassins failed to return to wherever they came from, someone might be sent to find out what had happened to them.

"I'll get you some water," he repeated, "but first we must find a place to hide. Can you walk?"

"Mmmm... Help... me..."

Tansen was only average in size, but he seemed to be made of iron as Zarien hauled him off the blood-drenched ground. He was all hard muscle and wiry sinew, lean but heavy with the steely strength that people spoke about when they mentioned his name with such awe.

"I can't carry you," Zarien said as his throbbing feet protested the extra weight.

"Help... walk..." Tansen mumbled as he leaned heavily on him. "You're... boy... small..."

"I'm not that small," Zarien snapped. Yes, landfolk were a little bigger than the sea-born, but he was hardly a runt.

He heard a snort and glanced up quickly. A slight smile touched Tansen's lips, though his face contorted in pain again. "Didn't mean to... offend," he said, clearly speaking common Silerian now. Zarien hadn't been sure, before.

"Where can we go?" he asked.
 

"Not up," said Tansen. "Down."

"Oh. Good."

"If more assassins come... They'll search past here... Above... Not below... To try to catch me..." But as Zarien turned and started down the path, with Tansen's arm slung over his shoulder, the warrior said, "No. Not the path."

"Through the scrub?" Zarien asked without enthusiasm.

"And... we mustn't leave... trail of blood."

"This is my only shirt," Zarien said, already resigned.

"Sorry," Tansen muttered as Zarien struggled out of the garment while trying to keep his hold on the warrior. "Get you another. Promise."

Zarien used his small stolen knife to tear up his stolen homespun tunic and fashion an adequate dressing for the wound. Tansen was silent throughout the bandaging process, his sunken eyes closed, his breathing fast and shallow. Zarien let him rest for a few moments while he went to retrieve Tansen's satchel and his own
stahra
, which was still lying where he had dropped it earlier. When he returned with the metal-tipped oar, he thought for a terrible moment that the unmoving warrior was dead, so still was he as he leaned against a boulder.

"
Siran?
" Zarien used the
shallah
term of respect which had become common throughout Silerian culture.

"Not dead yet," was the weary reply.

But soon, perhaps. I'd better ask before he dies,
Zarien decided. "Where's Josarian?"

Tansen's eyes snapped open. "Why?"

"I must find him."

"Why?" Tansen repeated.

"I'll explain later."

"Then I'll answer you later."

Zarien stared at him with a touch of exasperation. "You really are a
shallah
. Not Kint or a
toren
, as some say—"

"And you're sea-born, aren't you?" Tansen still looked exhausted, but more alert now. "Those tattoos, that
stahra
..."

"Yes." Zarien supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Tansen knew what the weapon was called. A great warrior like him probably even knew how to use one. "I am Lascari." He hesitated, then added more honestly, "Or I used to be."

"Why are you looking for Josarian?"

Be patient. He guards Josarian's back. Of course he won't simply tell you where he is.

"The sea-born need him," Zarien began.

"Everyone needs him."

"It's complicated."

"I believe you."

"I have to find him," Zarien said. "My life depends on it."

Tansen lowered his head. "You're in trouble, then."

"What do you mean?"

Tansen didn't answer for a moment. When he lifted his head again, his face looked terrible. Haunted. Grief-stricken. "Josarian is dead."

Zarien felt it like a blow. "
What?"

"Two nights ago. At the Zilar River."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

"You're sure?" Zarien asked.

"I was there."

"What happened?" When there was no reply, Zarien blurted, "How could you let him die?"

Pale from blood loss, Tansen seemed to go even whiter.

Zarien faltered. "I'm sorry. I didn't... didn't mean—"

"Go back to the sea, boy."

"I can't."

"He's dead."

"Then there must be another—"

"There's nothing for you here," Tansen said flatly.

"There must be!"

"Shhh..." Tansen lifted his head. He seemed to be listening for something. Zarien froze. More assassins? After a moment, Tansen shook his head. "We can't stay here and argue about it now." He winced, pressed a hand over the bandaged wound, and said, "You've helped me. That will be enough for them, if they come."

"Yes, we must hurry," Zarien dreaded the prospect of facing more assassins when Tansen couldn't even stand up by himself. "And night is coming."

"Night is always coming," the legendary warrior replied.

"Siran?"
Tansen said softly.

Armian awoke with a start. His gaze flashed around the cave, glowing dimly in the lantern light, until he saw Tansen. "Tan? I... I thought there was a woman here..."

"There is." Tansen gestured to the Sister who lay sleeping in a far corner of the cave. "I brought her yesterday. She will stay until she's sure you will recover."

Armian inhaled, tensing and flexing his muscles. "I will," he said with certainty. "I feel much better."

"She says you are very strong."

"You're very strong, too." Armian studied him in the flickering light for a moment. "Not many boys could do all you've done for me."

Tansen felt his face glow with pleasure at the compliment, but he shrugged it off like a man. "You have been away from the mountains for too long. Here, I am not special."