Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  First to round the hull, Kesla immediately saw the danger. The elv’in, in respect for their dead, had built a small shelter on the leeward side of the ship. It shadowed the four dead bodies from the blistering sun.

  As she watched, one of the bodies was dragged from the shelter and drawn under the sand. The thief could be seen by its thin white fin and muscled tail protruding from the sand. It thrashed, throwing sand high into the air. Thin elv’in bones cracked, and the body disappeared along with the predator into the cooler depths of the sand. All that remained was a bloody stain.

  Another scream arose.

  “There she is!” Hunt said, coming around the ship and pointing.

  Sheeshon stood atop a spit of sandstone, balanced precariously, a look of terror on her tiny face.

  Hunt moved toward her as others rushed up behind them.

  “No,” Kesla said, pulling him back by an arm, holding the others in place, too. “Don’t move.”

  Hunt began to protest, but a pair of fins rose ominously from the sand and circled the rock, sweeping up and around the bank of a dune.

  “Sand sharks,” Kesla said. “They’re drawn by the blood of the dead.”

  Sheeshon had spotted them by now. She reached her arms out, pleadingly, tears running down her face. “I need you!” she called out, eyes staring straight at Hunt.

  The tall Bloodrider suddenly stiffened beside Kesla and broke her grip. He plodded toward the stranded girl.

  “No!” Kesla yelled. “Stand still! Besides blood, they’re attracted by movement!”

  Hunt seemed deaf and continued onward.

  “It’s the spell,” Sy-wen said. “Between mer’ai and Bloodrider. He’s enthralled.”

  Kast whipped off his cloak, naked again, and rushed forward. He tossed the wrap over Hunt’s head, breaking contact between the girl and the tall Bloodrider. Hunt sagged as if a string had been cut between him and the girl. Confused, he tried to rip away the cloak, but Kast restrained him. “Keep your tattoo covered, Hunt.”

  Nodding his understanding, Hunt slid the cloak down to his shoulders and wore it as a scarf over the tattoo around his neck.

  “No one move!” Kesla ordered.

  Other fins surfaced, over a dozen.

  At the shelter, two more elv’in bodies were dragged under the sands. Another was torn between two of the predators fighting for meat. Bloody gobbets were tossed, only to be consumed by smaller sharks darting up and snagging the bits with a flash of serrated white teeth.

  “Will they attack us?” Joach asked.

  “They’re mostly scavengers. They seldom attack the living. But in a feeding frenzy, they’ve been known to attack anything that moves. Just stand still. They should leave once they’ve fed.”

  Kesla sensed the tension in the others. It was difficult to stand frozen with the girl sobbing and crying for help. But they had no choice. To move would draw the attention of the bloody jaws under the sand.

  As they waited, the sun climbed the sky.

  With the bodies now devoured and gone, the fins sank back into the sands with swishes of powerful tails until there was only one remaining. Kesla watched the last fin through narrowed eyes. It was the tallest of the group—the bull shark. It led and herded the others. Its fin circled the bloody sand, clearly seeming for any traces of remaining meat. It swept up the far dune bank, sinking away, then was gone.

  She allowed the breath trapped in her chest to slowly escape. They had survived.

  The child began to clamber off the stone. Hunt moved toward her.

  Then Kesla saw a ripple in the bank of sand, something drifting just under the surface. Hiding.

  “No!” she yelled. “Get back!”

  But she was too late. The small girl had reached the sand and ran toward the tall Bloodrider, arms raised to be picked up. Neither noticed the tall fin rise again from the sand and surge toward them.

  The others screamed warnings, too.

  Turning, Hunt finally recognized the approaching danger. He darted forward and snatched up the girl, diving to the side as the fin swept up and passed by him, missing his heels by a hairbreadth. Cut off from both the spit of sandstone and the ship, he twisted around and struggled to climb the neighboring dune. But the loose sand fought him. The fin of the bull shark swept toward him in pursuit.

  Other fins arose, hungry, circling, cutting off any means of rescue.

  Kesla jerked Joach around. “The nightglass dagger! Give it to me!”

  Joach’s brows knit suspiciously.

  “It’s the only thing to fight sand beasts. Trust me!”

  Joach hesitated—then a scream arose from Sheeshon. He yanked the dagger from its sheath under his cloak and thrust it at her. She grabbed the cold handle, wrapping fingers around the coiled basilisk.

  Kesla glanced to the group, her voice as sharp as the blade’s edge. “No one move until I tell you!” She ran forward as even more fins rose from the depths, cutting and crisscrossing each other in a hunting pattern. Kesla danced up and through the thrashing tangle. Trained as an assassin, she knew how to run the sands without disturbing a single grain. None of the predators noticed her passage through their territory.

  Past the smaller fins, Kesla raced to the far dune. “I’ll draw it off!” she yelled up to Hunt. “But you have to stop moving!”

  Hunt tried to stop, but his feet slid in the loose sand. Sheeshon clutched his neck. The fin aimed straight for them. Kesla recognized the rising panic in the tall Bloodrider’s eyes as death swept in, but he fought to obey her orders. He slid to a stop, teetering, up to his shins in the loose sand.

  Kesla angled away from them, trotting up the dune’s face. This time she did not try to hide her steps but used her skill to accentuate them: pounding the sand with the flats of her feet, slapping with each footstep.

  As she did this, she watched over her shoulder.

  The fin continued to sweep toward Hunt and Sheeshon—but it slowed, coming to a stop only a step from the Bloodrider’s legs.

  Kesla slowed also, stopping and pounding one foot harder. “Hear me,” she pleaded between clenched teeth. The fin did not move. It needed more coaxing. She drew the nightglass dagger across her palm, the blade so sharp she hardly felt its bite. Blood welled up, creating a dark pool in her palm. Turning her hand, she squeezed her fist and dribbled blood into the dry sand.

  Near Hunt, the fin sank a bit. Then, in a burst of sand, the sand shark heaved itself around, its tail thrashing. Hunt was knocked backward, landing on his backside in the sand, cradling Sheeshon. But the bull shark seemed not to notice, fixed on the scent of fresh blood. The fin aimed toward Kesla.

  Kesla backed up the dune, still walking flat-footed, ensuring her steps echoed deep into the sand, dribbling blood at the same time. At the peak of the dune, she paused. “C’mon, hunter. Prove your hunger.”

  In the valley below, she saw her companions staring up at her, worried expressions fixed on their faces. Around them, the other smaller sharks continued to circle, not interfering with their leader.

  Kesla crouched, ready.

  The fin angled toward her position, sweeping up the face of the dune. Kesla waited until the beast was only two steps away—then ran directly at the fin. This close, the beast sensed its prey and surged up out of the sand, a maw of teeth and black throat. Kesla leaped, rolling through the air, and landed atop the fin. Raising her dagger high, she plunged its full length deep into the beast’s back.

  Impaled, the beast bucked under her. It bulged up from the sand, its tail whipping viciously. She rode the shark, her fingers clenched to the fin’s edge. One hand reached out and yanked the dagger free. Black blood poured over the sand and down the dune’s face. As it thrashed, she plunged the dagger in again, more to anchor her perch than as a true attack.

  The shark attempted to flee, diving back into the sandy deep. Kesla was almost dragged down with it, but at the last moment, she tugged free her weapon and vaulted clear, rolling down the dune.

&
nbsp; At the bottom, she slid to her feet, blade raised against any further attack. The smaller sharks circled a moment more, then slipped back under the sand, following their wounded bull. She signaled her companions to remain where they were. She wanted the pod of sand sharks well away from the area before anyone moved.

  She wrapped her sliced palm into the edge of her cloak. She did not want her blood attracting stragglers. As she stood, she saw movement among her companions gathered on the valley floor.

  It was Joach. His arm shot up, his mouth opening . . . The tiny hairs on Kesla’s nape quivered. Joach was pointing to the slope behind her.

  Spinning on a heel, Kesla dropped.

  “Watch out!” Joach’s scream echoed behind her.

  From the bank of the dune, a huge shape leaped forth, a monstrous wall of muscle and teeth. The bull shark, blind with anger and blood lust, flew its full length out of the sand, hurtling through the air toward Kesla. Its fleshy mouth stretched wide, baring rows of razored teeth. Kesla could have walked upright between its open jaws.

  Instead, while still crouched, she dove forward—low, under the beast’s maw. As the shark flew over her, she thrust her dagger high. The magick-fed nightglass cut cleanly, as if through air.

  As the monster’s bulk hurtled by, the dagger sliced its belly from end to end. But the tip of its tail clipped Kesla’s shoulder, throwing her hard to the sand. The blow knocked the dagger from her hand and sent it twirling away.

  Weaponless, she rolled to her belly, tiny lights dancing before her eyes. The bull shark crashed to the valley floor, landing on its side. Intestines and blood spilled from its gutted belly. Writhing, its cavernous mouth gnashed at the sand. The others backed away warily. But its twitching quickly grew still. Blood spread in a widening lake.

  Kesla pushed to her feet. “We should be safe for the moment,” she gasped out, bruised, the air knocked from her lungs. “The bull’s blood will drive away its brethren. But there are other predators. We must keep moving.”

  Joach collected the dagger and came to her side, offering his arm for support. “What you did . . . Your speed . . .”

  She smiled weakly. “So you’ve finally found a use for an assassin’s skills.”

  Hunt came up on her other side, Sheeshon still in his arms. Tears and sand stained the girl’s face. She scowled at the shark’s corpse. “Big bad fish,” she scolded in childish anger, holding her nose against the rising smell.

  Kesla reached up to touch the girl’s cheek, but her legs wobbled with sudden exhaustion. She stumbled back toward the sand.

  “I’ve got you,” Joach said, catching her.

  Kesla stared up into his eyes. “Thanks.”

  He slid the nightglass dagger into her belt. “I think you should keep this. You’ve earned it.”

  Kesla glanced down at this clear token of trust. She turned away to hide her welling tears and cleared her throat. “We . . . we should head out as soon as possible.” She straightened and stared at the dead bulk of the shark. “The tribes have an old adage: ‘In the sands, only the dead stop moving.’ ”

  “Then let’s break camp,” Kast said, and stepped ahead with Sy-wen, leading the way back to the smoldering wreck of the Eagle’s Fury.

  Joach kept near to Kesla’s side. She noticed his gaze on her as she followed the others. Instead of his usual smoldering anger, she sensed something else—something she hadn’t felt since back at the kitchens of A’loa Glen, when she had posed as a scullion maid.

  She glanced out of the corner of an eye. Joach shuffled beside her, biting his lower lip, eyes thoughtful. Turning, she kept her face hidden and allowed a small smile to shine.

  BELGAN STOOD AT his high window and studied the spread of deserts around Alcazar. A moon, near to full, climbed the skies and cast the sands, dunes, and rocks in silver. It was so bright that he could see far into the distance.

  “Where are you, Kesla?” he whispered to the desert. Worry kept him far from sleep this night. The shaman’s scrying bones were mixed with omens, both glad and dire. Kesla had reached the desert—but she was far from safe.

  After reading the bones, the shaman had left Alcazar. He would send some of his tribesmen out into the desert to watch for the girl. Belgan prayed they would find her safe, prayed she had succeeded in priming the ancient dagger in wit’ch blood. So much depended on someone so young.

  But he knew Kesla was more than she appeared. He was the one who had found her a decade ago, walking the desert sands. She’d been naked, less than five winters of age, with no knowledge of her family or past—but he had known right away that she was special. The harsh sun had not marked her. Her tawny hair was long, dragging in the sand behind her as if its strands had never been sheared. She had walked into his night camp as if birthed by the desert itself. For one so lost and alone, she appeared unnaturally calm, though she could not speak. He had first believed her addled, but she had learned quickly: speaking within the year, reading the next, quickly mastering any and every skill and challenge posed her.

  There was something special about Kesla. It shone from her. When the task came to wet the nightglass dagger in wit’ch blood, there was no other choice. Even if the shaman’s bones had pointed another way, Belgan would have chosen Kesla. To him, she was the desert’s best hope.

  A knock sounded behind him.

  He turned, wondering who could be disturbing him at this late hour. “Enter,” he called out.

  The door to his room opened, and an apprentice bowed into the room. “Master Belgan. I apologize for disturbing you so late.”

  “What is it, Seth?”

  “There comes to the gate a wanderer, someone begging entrance to Alcazar.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Belgan frowned. To walk the desert alone was the act of a fool. The dangers were too plentiful for a single pair of eyes to guard against. And at this late hour, he did not have the patience to tolerate fools. “What does this wanderer want?”

  “That’s why I disturbed you. He wishes to speak to you. He says that he comes with a warning.”

  Belgan sighed. He had better investigate. Plucking his cloak from its peg, he drew its red folds around his pale form. “Have you let him inside?”

  “No, Master. He waits outside the gate.”

  He nodded. Good. With the dangers and diseased creatures loose in the desert, the gates were ordered locked at twilight and were not to be opened until dawn. “Take me to him.”

  Seth held the door open for his master, then scurried ahead, leading the way down the stairs and through the sandstone halls.

  Ages ago, the keep of Alcazar had been hollowed and sculpted from a tall outcropping of sandstone. Approached from the desert, Alcazar appeared to be a plain pinnacle of stone, but a natural vertical crack in its northern face led into an inner central courtyyard, open to the sky above. The keep itself had been carved from this yard’s surrounding cliffs, sculpted into straight towers, corkscrewing spires, and gigantic sculptures of ancient kings. It was a castle encased in a shell of sandstone, the private keep and hold of the Assassins’ Guild.

  Seth pushed through a thick ash door and held it open. Belgan stepped out of his tower and onto the paving stones of the central yard. From here, Belgan continued ahead, Seth trailing at his heels.

  As he crossed the yards, the moon hung high overhead, shining down into the heart of Alcazar. To the right, the stables housing the desert malluks whispered with their mewls and chuffing. The usually stoic beasts were clearly agitated, frightened. Even the stable-master had been roused. Belgan saw Humph, dressed only in his nightclothes, hauling the door open to check on his charges.

  As he stared, a stray breeze wound under Belgan’s cloak and shivered his skin. He wrapped his garment tighter to his thin shoulders, hugging his sides. Strange omens ride this night.

  Seth caught up and passed him. “This way, Master Belgan.”

  On the far side of the yard, the crack in the sandstone clif
f led out to the open desert, but it had been sealed from top to bottom with a crosshatch of iron bars, each as thick as a man’s wrist. Spikes of poisoned barbs festooned the far side, discouraging any thief from attempting to climb the construction. The only opening in its iron face was a portcullis that could be raised or lowered by winches and counterbalances.

  Seth led the way to the closed gate. In the dimness beyond the portal, Belgan spotted a shadowed lump.

  As he neared, two apprentices stood to either side, spears in hand: the night’s sentries. Belgan nodded to the pair, then slipped a flaming brand from a sconce and approached the gate.

  The desert wanderer glanced up from where he knelt at the door.

  Belgan gasped and fell back. The face under the cloak’s hood was all wrinkles and milky eyes. It was as if an ancient mummified corpse stood at his portal. But this was no dead man. Leaning on a length of grayish wood, the stranger dragged to his feet. Hoary joints popped and creaked.

  Belgan composed himself. “How . . . How may I help you, old man?”

  The figure revealed a stumped wrist and shoved down his hood. The man’s staff swiped before his wrinkled face as if waving away a biting fly. Now that the stranger was standing and fully exposed to view, Belgan realized his first impression of the wanderer had been mistaken, a trick of flickering torchlight. Certainly the man was old, but not as corrupted as he had first thought.

  Belgan cast aside his initial trepidation. There was nothing to fear. The wanderer’s voice, when he spoke, was rich and deep, though coarse with age around the edges. “I come not seeking your help, Master Belgan, but to offer you my assistance.”

  “How so? Who are you? Where do you come from?”

  “I have many names, but you may call me Dismarum. I am a nomad, wandering the many lands of Alasea.”

  The staff again waved before the man’s face as he shifted his tired limbs. The old face suddenly reminded Belgan of his grandfather. He felt a twinge of guilt at his own lack of hospitality—but he kept his tone even. “Why have you come to my gates?”

  “To warn of an enemy coming this way.”