Greshym reached to the staff’s power and felt his own dream image flow to match the shaman’s, mirror images grasping the same length of petrified stone. “I’m you, of course.”
Parthus attempted to shove aside the staff. But his eyes flew wide as he failed. The staff had hold of him. His eyes shone brighter. “You’ve brought something physical into the dream desert,” the shaman said with horror.
“So it would seem. And if I remember correctly from the blasted texts of the ghoul Ashmara, on the dream plane, real objects can kill.” Greshym touched his dark magicks and ignited the end of his staff.
Balefire blew forth to consume the shaman. Parthus attempted to flail backward, but he was anchored to the staff, unable to escape. His limbs caught fire and blazed brightly in the dimly glowing sands. The shaman’s eyes turned beseechingly in his direction. Why? they pleaded.
Greshym only smiled. To forget one’s past, foul or not, risked ruin. But Greshym had no interest in instructing this youngster any further. He fed a final burst of magick into the staff, and the man burst aflame. Around the pair, the sands blackened and melted, forming a molten pool. Greshym ignored it, floating atop its surface.
Once the shaman was nothing but a scorched skeleton clinging to the end of his staff, Greshym shook the bones off with disgust and stepped away. The smoldering remains sank into the molten sands of the dream desert. Greshym watched a moment, then turned away with a sigh.
Behind him, the blackened bit of sand faded away, erased by the endless desert sands. But he knew that in the middle of the oasis of Oo’shal, someone would soon discover the burned remains of Shaman Parthus, melted into a patch of black glass—what the tribesmen of the desert called nightglass, a miniature version of that great barren lake of Aii’shan.
As Greshym headed back over the sands to return to the silver river, he wondered if Joach was already sailing atop Aii’shan’s midnight surface.
He smiled and glanced down at the form he had stolen from Shaman Parthus and laughed. No matter where Joach traveled now, when it was most important, he and Joach would meet again.
KESLA WALKED UP to Joach as he sat on a crate and stared out at the black lake of Aii’shan. She stepped to the rail. The night sky was clear, and stars shone both overhead and in the glassy surface of the surrounding sea. The wind remained swift over the smooth, hard surface, filling the sails of the skateboat and speeding them toward the rising full moon.
“How much longer?” Joach asked, not turning.
“The pilot says we’ll reach the far side before the moon reaches its zenith.” She glanced behind her. Fess a’Kalar stood by the tiller, face bare to the winds, his eyes on the stars and his sails. Up and down the boat, his four-man crew worked lines and cranked winches at his command.
Joach nodded. “Is everything prepared?”
“Kast and Sy-wen are ready to take flight as soon as we dock. Innsu and the tribesmen have their weapons sharpened, arrows fletched, and they are dressed in sand gear. Hunt and Richald oversee Sheeshon, who rests belowdecks.” Kesla could not help but smile, even with the tension. “Hunt truly has a sweet voice when he sings her to sleep.”
Joach glanced at her, a shadow of a smile on his face.
She settled beside him, sharing his crate. He made a motion to stand and move away, but she gripped his arm. “Stay . . . please.”
After a pause, he sank back to his seat with a sigh.
Kesla remained silent, just appreciating this quiet moment. Finally, she felt Joach relax beside her, leaning ever so slightly against her. She slid an arm smoothly around his back. Neither spoke; neither acknowledged the simple gesture.
As the boat glided across the lake, the whisper of its steel runners on the glass surface created a continual haunted music, echoing eerily across the night.
Finally Joach spoke. “Tell me about Aii’shan.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Earlier you mentioned that the lake was formed during the ancient battle that first drove the ghouls from Tular, some magickal cataclysm that melted the sands to this black glass.”
“Nightglass,” she whispered, “like the dagger.”
“Tell me more about this legend.”
“It’s not legend, but history. I’ve read books in Master Belgan’s library—texts and scrolls stretching into the distant past of the Southern Wastes.”
Joach glanced at her, their faces only a handspan apart. “You read?”
“Do you want to be pushed off this scow?” She smiled at him and stared into his eyes a moment. It was good to hear him tease. But there was a sadness in his gaze that she could not touch. It had been there since they had escaped Alcazar. He turned away. “So tell me about this place.”
She sighed. “This region was once just desert, except for Ka’aloo at the foot of the Southwall, a sprawling trading port beside the desert’s largest oasis. Silk merchants, spice traders, and dealers in wares would come from all over. Their tents would stretch for leagues into the sands around Ka’aloo.”
“So what happened?”
“As the ghouls grew in power and perversity, fewer and fewer would make the trek, fearing for their lives. Tales began to spread of children disappearing, of strange cries echoing over the sands from Tular, of beasts that would come with the night to attack and pillage. So the flow of riches trickled away. This did not please the ghouls. They had grown to enjoy the varieties of wines, spices, and outlander wares at their doorstep. An order was sent out, demanding a certain tithe of goods be delivered to their representatives in Ka’aloo.”
“The beginning of the tithing?”
Kesla nodded. “And as the ghouls grew ever more bold, so did their demands. Soon a tithing of blood was being demanded: cattle, malluks, goats . . . and . . . and eventually—”
“Children,” Joach finished.
“Upon reaching manhood or with the first bleed of womanhood, the firstborn of every family was required to serve two winters in Tular. Most never returned. Those that did were crippled in the mind, unable to speak. Many had turned savage, more beast than man.”
“Why did the tribes submit to them?”
“If a village or tribe refused, the basilisk was sent to them in the night and all were killed. Nothing could slay the beast. So as winters passed, slowly the tithing grew to be a custom of the Wastes, another harshness of the unforgiving desert.”
“How horrible.”
Kesla stared out at the glass sea. “Such was life under the ghouls.”
“So what happened?”
“Occasionally there were assaults upon Tular, uprisings, but they were all beaten down and swallowed by the sands. None could resist the ghouls. Then one winter, a child was born whose eyes glowed with the shine of the dream desert.” Kesla glanced to Joach to see if he understood.
He nodded.
“He was named Shiron, after the first star to rise each night. His family lived alone in the desert and immediately knew him to be special. It was said that hundreds of stars fell from the skies on the night he was born. Since the parents were isolated nomads and called no place home, they decided to risk defying the ghouls and keep their child hidden. It was only their own lives at risk. But soon, other tribes heard of the child and took up the family’s cause. The family was spirited from tribe to tribe, from village to village. The child grew up to know the entire breadth and spread of the desert. All who laid eyes upon him knew he was the one to free them from the tyranny of the ghouls. Rumors spread of his ability to call water from the sands, to tame a sandstorm with the wave of his hand. All declared Shiron to be the chosen one, the child of the desert itself. Some questioned whether he had even been born of man and woman, but born out of the desert itself.”
Joach suddenly stiffened beside her. She glanced to him, but he waved for her to continue, his expression slightly pained.
“So when he grew to manhood at the age of thirteen, no one in the desert wanted him tithed to Tular. Everyone whispered his
name. But little happened in the desert of the Wastes that did not reach the ears of the ghouls. On the night of his passage from boy to man, the basilisk itself appeared in the sands outside the village where he was staying. It did not attack, but simply took up silent watch, warning all that the child must be taken to Tular. That night plans were made to whisk Shiron away, but the boy refused. Instead, after the celebrations of his passage to manhood, Shiron left the village and walked to where the basilisk was rooted. It is said that Shiron spoke to the ghouls through the beast and swore to bring himself to the Southwall.”
“Why?”
“That’s what the villagers asked him. They tried to convince him to flee, but Shiron left with the morning’s light and made the long trek to the Wall. Each night of the journey, the basilisk would come to make sure he kept his promise, its baleful eye watching over the boy. But he did not try to run. He reached Ka’aloo in less than a quarter moon. There, with the moon shining as bright as it does this night, he found a ghoul named Ashmara waiting for him.”
“Ashmara?”
“Every desert child’s nightmare. It was said his skin was as pale as milk and his eyes glowed with red fires. He was the most corrupt of the ghouls, sick in his depravity and wild in his blood lusts. Some said his wickedness came with his birth. Born with skin that could not tolerate the sun’s touch, eyes that could not withstand its brightness, he grew to hate the desert, only coming out at night to wreak his terror upon those that could walk the day.”
“And this Shiron . . . did Ashmara take him to Tular?”
“No, in the center square of Ka’aloo, beside the pool of the oasis, Shiron finally refused and spat at the toes of the leader of Tular. He told Ashmara that from this day forward the reign of the ghouls would end, that his own blood would slay them all.”
“What happened?”
Kesla turned from her study of the lake back to Joach. “Here is where texts vary on what happened. Some say Ashmara drew a dagger and attacked Shiron, while others say Shiron pulled a magickal sword from the sand and drove it through the ghoul but failed to kill him. But no matter the story, a great battle was fought between them. Dire magicks lit the night skies. Those in Ka’aloo fled into the desert with only the cloaks on their backs. The battle raged between Shiron and Ashmara throughout the entire night, and by sunrise, those that had returned found only a lake of steaming and running glass. Aii’shan, it was named—‘the Desert’s Tears.’ It took a full moon’s time for the lake to cool.”
“And what of Shiron and Ashmara?”
Kesla shook her head. “Both were gone, consumed by their own magicks.”
Joach stared at the smooth, dark lake. “And Tular?”
“Once word spread of Shiron, the tribes rose up once again. Not just a handful, as in the past, but the entire desert. Tular, though leaderless now, was not defenseless. The basilisk still lived, as did hordes of other wicked beasts. But Ashmara had been the strongest of Southwall’s ghouls. With his loss, the others barely resisted the attack of the desert’s tribes. A siege began that stretched for two winters.” Kesla faced Joach. “Until one day, a woman came and instructed the artisans of the desert to sculpt a dagger from the glass of the lake.”
“Sisa’kofa?”
She nodded. “The Wit’ch of Spirit and Stone. She spilled her own blood upon the blade, and on the night of the full moon, she walked naked into Tular and slew the basilisk. With the death of the ghouls’ monster, the tide was turned. In less than a moon, Tular fell, the walls were pulled down, and the place was scoured of all living things. It became a cursed place avoided by all.”
Joach sighed. “Until it all started over again.”
Behind them, Fess a’Kalar called from the tiller. “We near the Southwall! Ready yourselves!”
Joach and Kesla both stood. Squinting her eyes, Kesla spotted where the gleam of the glass lake ended and the sands began once again. Beyond the sand, the far horizon lost its gentle curve as the stars of the night sky were sliced away by a straight, unyielding line. Though it was unseen, Kesla recognized the silhouette of the Southwall, dark and imposing.
Around her, the crew of the skateboat began to scurry in preparation of beaching on the sands. Despite the activity, Kesla found her eyes fixed on the Wall. For a moment, two images lay atop each other. Ghostly in the moonlight, glimpses of pavilions and trees and a pool of midnight blue appeared around her.
“Ka’aloo,” she mumbled.
“What was that?” Joach asked.
As the images faded away she shook her head and touched the nightglass dagger hidden under her cloak, seeking reassurance. It was just her imagination, the old stories come to life in her mind’s eye. She turned her back on the lake, but she could not escape the feeling that for that brief moment she had been staring through Shiron’s eyes, seeing ancient Ka’aloo as the boy must have seen it.
Joach touched her arm. “Is something wrong?”
She reached to his fingers and simply clutched them, fighting the sense of doom. “Let’s get everyone ready. We’ve much to do before the dawn comes.”
JOACH WAITED FOR the signal. He and Richald leaned their backs against the outcropping of sandstone. Both of them were covered in cloaks that matched the sand and stone. Neither of them breathed. Across the shallow valley, Innsu hid with his ten warriors among the scrabble of rock. Between them, in the valley’s center, Hunt and Kesla sat around a fire, with Sheeshon sleeping in a bedroll near the flames.
Bait for those that approached.
After disembarking from the skateboat, it had been difficult in the flat sands to find an adequate place to ambush the children’s caravan without being seen. Even at night, the stars and setting moon were enough to cast the landscape in silver. But as much as it made their task difficult, it also made the approaching caravan easy to spot.
Even before the skateboat had beached, Kast had found the caravan with a spyglass. The long train trundled with wagons and mewling malluks, winding along the shores of Aii’shan as it headed toward Tular. Lamps swung from poles on both beast and wagon, a glowing snake splayed across the dark desert landscape. Kast had lowered his spyglass with a worried look. “I count six skal’tum stalking around the edges of the caravan.”
With this dire news, they needed as much time as possible to ready the trap.
Fess a’Kalar had proven his skill as a pilot, gliding his ship well ahead of the caravan and finding a shelter in which to keep his boat hidden. Once landed, they had quickly set out and chosen this point along the shore road in which to set up their ambush. Framed by sandstone boulders, it offered plenty of shelter and deep shadows.
“Here comes the scout,” Richald said, ducking down.
The heavy tread of an approaching malluk grew closer, coming from just over the next dune. Joach lay unmoving as the great beast shambled by. The musky scent of its passage swept over him. Once it was past, he shifted enough to watch the malluk crest the dune and head down the far side.
The rider called to those gathered around the fire. “Ho!”
Kesla acted surprised by the appearance of the scout. She stood quickly and spoke in the desert tongue. Joach did not understand it. The man was clearly questioning her, and she pointed an arm at Sheeshon bundled in her blankets. Joach knew what she was explaining to the man. She and her uncle were heading to Dallinskree with her niece, a tribute for this moon’s tithing.
The scout stared around the small camp, clearly suspicious. Sheeshon awoke from all the noise and rubbed her eyes. Sleepy, she leaned closer to Hunt. He comforted her while motioning her to stay silent. It would ruin the ruse if Sheeshon should speak. Her Dre’rendi accent would certainly mark her as an outlander.
From his perch, the scout eyed the child. Joach prayed for him to rise to the bait. He seemed to sniff the air. The campsite had been ringed with malluk urine, a common warding against the sand sharks and other burrowing predators. Its strong musk also helped mask the presence of the hidden men. Fess a’K
alar had warned them that the guards for the caravan were desert outlaws who had been bought with gold for this foul duty. They were as cunning as they were savage.
Finally, the scout lifted a horn from his saddle and blew a long slow note, a signal that it was safe for the caravan to come forward.
The signal given, Hunt whipped back his cloak and swung his hidden club. The man turned in time to take the brunt of the blow to the side of his face. He tumbled from his perch and struck the sand hard. Kesla flew to the malluk’s side to keep it calm. Silently, Innsu slid from his hiding spot and raced to the mount and up into the high saddle.
Without a word, Innsu ambled the malluk to the crest of the hill, back in direct sight of the caravan. He lifted an arm and waved for the wagons to continue forward along the shore road. In the meantime, Kesla quickly bound and gagged the limp guard, then she and Hunt dragged him to where the desert warriors still lay hidden.
The plan was to allow the caravan to swing into the valley before beginning their attack. With the caravan’s attention on the small roadside camp, Joach and his group would attack the flanks.
In the shallow valley, Kesla and Hunt returned to their positions around the campfire. Joach bit his lip against the tension. What occurred next depended on perfect timing and expert execution.
In short order, the forefront of the caravan wound over the rise and down into the valley. Malluks with solitary riders led the way; behind them came open wagons hauled by pairs of malluks. The wagon beds were loaded with baled hay and crates of goods sacked from Dallinskree. Behind them came cart after cart of barred cages. Inside, lit by torches, the scared, pale faces of children stared out at the surrounding sands. Their cries and sobbing echoed over the dunes. Flanking the children’s wagons were outriders, scouts on leaner malluks.
But as Joach watched, the worst was yet to come. He saw the first skal’tum climb over the rise. Framed in firelight, it stood as tall as any malluk, and the folded wings on its back twitched as its black eyes stared across the valley. Joach prayed that the musk would continue to mask the hidden party. As the creature descended into the valley, its white flesh stood out starkly against the shadowed sands, like a corpse floating on a dark sea.