“So,” Khriss said experimentally, “do you think those warriors will attack again?”
A small smile crept onto Kenton’s lips. “I wondered when you would get to that,” he mumbled.
“Well, we deserve an explanation of some sort,” Khriss huffed.
“I suppose you do,” Kenton agreed, still staring off into the distance. “No, I don’ think they’ll attack again. We’re too close to Lossandin civilization now.”
“But, why did they try to kill us in the first place.”
“Not us,” Kenton corrected. “Me. They have nothing against darksiders. They are opposed to Lossand on religious principles, however.”
“I thought you said that the wars were over,” Khriss challenged.
“I thought they were,” Kenton said with a shake of his head. “Besides, just because most Kershtians are willing to forgive our heathen nature doesn’t mean they all have. Those men we saw, they belonged to some new Kershtian religious group. That’s why they tried to kill me. I’m a non-believer.”
Khriss frowned. There was more he wasn’t telling her, but she could sense the reservation within him. After travelling with him for just a few days, she knew that if she tried to press the issue, he would only grow more withdrawn.
In front of them, Baon suddenly hammered his mount to a halt. His head frozen in a posture of listening. Khriss grew cold, her hands suddenly gripping the unloaded pistol with tense anxiety. What had the warrior heard? Had the Kershtians finally returned?
Baon frowned, then turned his mount, hammering it forward and to the west. Khriss followed anxiously, but he didn’t go far. The mercenary led his tonk up the side of a shallow dune, cresting the top and pulling to a halt. Khriss stopped beside him, and only then did she hear what he had noticed. Water.
Before her, the sand fell away, revealing a dun flat plain of smooth rocks marked with occasional piles of white sand. A cavern opened from the rock floor a short distance away, and bubbling from its depths was a massive river.
“The Ry’Do Ali,” Kenton explained behind them. “The Vein of Cursed Waters, as the Kershtians have dubbed it. Lifeblood of Lossand.”
“It’s amazing …” Khriss said in awe. Just moments before they had been in a stark desert, not a patch of water to be seen. But here, suddenly, they were confronted by a roaring river at least fifty feet wide.
“We must have finally dropped beneath the water table,” Cynder mused, rubbing his chin with his good arm.
“But where does it come from?” Khriss demanded.
“The mountain, perhaps?” Cynder guessed. “It melts at the mountain’s top, but gets trapped in caverns and clefts, traveling down through the rock until it stops far beneath those sands.”
Khriss nodded—the logic made sense, in a twisted dayside sort of way. Regardless of its geological roots, Khriss found the river intoxicating. For weeks now she had seen nothing but the repetitive dunes of white sand; she was happy to see anything different, even if it was relatively wan by darkside standards. The land surrounding the river was by no means lush, but compared to the desert, it was fertile. Sickly green bushes burrowed their roots into the rocky brown soil around the river, and there were even a few squat trees—though nothing grew on the pale white patches of sand.
“Lossand refers to the Ali for nearly all of its water,” Kenton explained. “Our society can’t stray far from its banks—there aren’t any vines, and wells are unreliable at best. Welcome to the desert.”
#
It was true. Kenton was no longer a sand master. He had finally realized that fact during the fight, when he had held up his sand and ordered it to obey him. It had failed him in his moment of desperation. It was really gone.
The realization had rested heavily upon him during the last few hours of riding. He had avoided it before, forced himself not to confront it, believing that for some reason he might regain his powers. Now, however, he had finally admitted the truth. He was no longer a sand master.
Kenton sighed, trying his best to deal with the incredible sense of loss he now felt. The realization seemed to bring with it a renewal of his feelings of loneliness. Once again, he was forced to face the reality of his father’s death. He felt empty. Powerless. Sand mastery had been who he was—what was he now that it was gone? A shell, like the carapace of a dead sandling?
Kenton shook his head. He didn’t know what he was now. All this time, he had used sand mastery almost more like a means to spite his father than an end itself. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so callus with its use … . Regardless, he certainly wasn’t of much use now. He hadn’t even taken out a single Kershtian in the most recent attack. Baon had done all the work.
The large dark-skinned warrior stood a short distance away, playing with the zinkall he had taken off one of the dead men. They had decided to take a break beside the river; Khriss and the two professors sat beneath the shade of a river-side tree while Baon practiced with his new weapon.
Kenton sighed, finishing his inspection of the tonks. One had to be certain tonk saddles lay properly—if one’s skin was ever allowed to touch the beast’s carapace, then sweat could begin dissolving their carapace. Eventually he finished, then turned to walk toward the darksiders. As he approached, Baon finished pumping and raised his arm to fire the zinkall.
The sound was not unlike that of a person exhaling quickly. The arrow, propelled by a burst of compressed air, flew straight, snapping into a nearby stump’s crusty bark. Its shiny carapace head sunk about a half inch into the wood, sticking soundly.
Baon nodded appreciatively. The zinkall, designed for the much smaller dayside build, fit awkwardly on his bulging forearm. Its repaired straps were stretched to their limits, and the tip of the gauntlet, which was supposed to extend over the knuckles, only reached to his wrist.
Baon raised his arm again, careful to keep his wrist downturned, lest he shoot himself in the hand. He flipped one of the triggers on the bottom of the palm, and another arrow shot out, digging into the wood beside its brother.
“Not bad,” Kenton approved as he approached.
“Thank you,” Baon said, launching the final arrow. He was an excellent shot, considering he’d never used the weapon before.
Kenton stopped beside Baon, watching the man reload, eager for any distraction that took his mind off of his loss. As the warrior pumped, Kenton turned slightly, his eyes looking to where Khriss and the professors were lounging beneath the tree’s shade a short distance away.
For some irrational feeling, he wanted someone to explain his pains to. He knew the desire was foolish—talking about the loss would make it no less real. Besides, he had only known her for a short time—and had treated her so poorly during that time.
Khriss caught his eye, and he immediately turned away, watching Baon fire a new series of arrows into the tree.
#
Khriss frowned as Kenton turned away. He still had the depressed look in his eyes, though it was more muted now.
Perhaps I’m mistaking it, she thought suddenly. Maybe he’s not sad—maybe he’s just annoyed. He was probably getting tired of her presence—he probably had better things to do than lead around a bunch of darksiders.
Well, I don’t feel sorry for him, Khriss decided. I did save his life, after all. He owes me his life—he should be grateful to have the opportunity to help us to Lossand.
With a nod of defiance, Khriss intentionally put Kenton out of her mind. She sighed in contentment, leaning happily against the tree, whose shade she shared with Acron and Cynder. While she wasn’t exactly comfortable—it was still far too hot for that—the combination of the shade and river breeze was perhaps the most luxurious thing she had felt since arriving on the arid continent.
Still, despite the river, she was still relatively disappointed with Lossand. It wasn’t nearly as lush as she had assumed it would be. The trees along the river were stumpy and twisted, and the land was more rock than it was earth. And, of course, there was still a great de
al of sand.
“It isn’t much different from firing a pistol,” she heard Baon explain to Kenton. Khriss opened her eyes, watching as he turned his arm to the side, inspecting the weapon. Khriss knew from her own studies earlier in the day what he would see.
Though the top of the weapon was protected by an oblong, convex piece of carapace that ran from wrist to elbow. The shell ran around a group of wooden tubes and strange black chambers. The three chambers—shaped something like a pear—each fed into a thin carapace pipe, perhaps an inch in diameter. The arrows fit snugly in the tubes, the plug just behind the arrowhead forming a seal and holding the missile in place.
Baon released the pumping mechanism—a long rod that folded out of the underside of the weapon—and began to repressurize the chambers. The pump worked easily, working at an angle, like a bellows, rather than up and down. After just five or six pumps, Baon was able to reload one of the small arrows and fire again.
“Very efficient,” Baon approved. “Not much power though. This wouldn’t go through armor.”
“Not carapace armor,” Kenton agreed. “But zinkallin aren’t meant to be used like bows. They’re for short range combat, to wound your opponent before you engage him with your sword. The best Kershtian warriors, however, are good enough shots to incapacitate or kill with a single arrow.”
Beside her, Acron watched the conversation with confused eyes. The large anthropologist had spent the better part of the morning inspecting the zinkall, and now he sat with Kenton’s carapace blade lying across his lap. The blade was long and smooth—almost like it was constructed of some sort of black metal.
“What’s bothering you, professor?” Khriss asked, taking a sip of water from her canteen. The river-water tasted different from vine-water—it had a more pure flavor.
Acron wiped his brow, shaking his head. “I’m having some trouble with this sword, My lady,” he confessed.
“Trouble?”
“Well, we saw men in that first town carrying bows, and they apparently know how to work steel, so they appear to be in the sword-age. But, those arm weapons are almost more like crossbows, which would put them in the knight-age. Then I study this sword, which is made of carapace—which is the dayside equivalent of bone. Bone weapons are definitely from the spear-age! So, what level of technology are these daysiders? It’s all terribly confusing.”
Khriss frowned. “Why can’t they be from all three ages?” she asked.
“My dear duchess,” the fat man replied with a chuckle, “that just doesn’t happen. Populations follow standard means of societal evolution. This is obviously a primitive society—it must be somewhere in the sword-age, or perhaps early knight-age. If we can determine their level of technology, then we will be able to understand their temperaments, their taboos, and their mores. Not to be effrontery, but perhaps you should have spent more time in the social sciences.”
“There’s one thing I never understood about that theory, dear Acron,” Cynder’s slow voice said from the other side of the tree. The lanky professor was laying back on the riverside grass, resting leisurely. He still wore one of his suits, though even with the number of out-fit changes he had, the clothing was beginning to look a bit dusty and dirty from their travels, not to mention the bloody tear in one of his finest jackets.
“Oh, what’s that?” Acron asked.
“Well, if a society’s technology evolves with its culture, then its language should do so as well. True?”
“Of course,” Acron agreed.
“Have you ever tried to learn Daysider—this Holy Kershtian, as Kenton calls it?” Cynder continued.
“I took a few courses,” Acron replied, a little more cautious.
“Well, dear man, how did you do?”
“I didn’t have much time to spend on the effort,” Acron replied with a shrug of his ample shoulders.
“Ah, then you probably didn’t have time to notice how delightfully insane the language is,” Cynder continued. “Its inflections are quite random, its order is completely backward, and many of its infixes are so complex that it takes years to even be able to read. Now, Dynastic, on the other hand, is very simple and straightforward. There are no irregularities, its order is uniform, and compared to daysider it is almost . . . well … primitive.”
Acron frowned, and Khriss could barely contain a snicker. One of Cynder’s favorite activities was pointing out inconsistency—though his intent was never malicious, the trait had earned him enemies amongst Elisian faculty and students alike. Few could understand that his arguments were made for the pure delight of irony, rather than intent to ridicule.
Acron, fortunately, was not one so easily offended. He simply laughed at Cynder’s remark, shrugging to himself. Acron was not a stupid man, but Cynder’s level of satire was usually lost on him—which was probably the main reason the two were able to remain friends. The anthropologist just took Cynder’s comments as being odd and incomprehensible, and laughed them away as personality quirks rather than trying to understand them.
Acron was still laughing when a massive form bent over him, picking up the carapace sword. “I can answer one question for you,” Baon informed, holding up the sword. “I don’t care what it’s made from—this is not a primitive weapon.”
“I say, dear man,” Acron chuckled, “and by what learning do you make that judgement?”
Baon swiped the sword a few times. “I may not have much university learning, but I know weapons. Do you see how the sword is wider where blade meets hilt, tapering as it length increases? That is an advanced sword design; it balances the weapon for thrusting and backhands, creating a far superior weapon. I’ve traveled amongst primitive peoples of darkside—their blades, when they have them, are always perpendicular to the hilts. They use swords like axes, ignoring most of the blade’s potential in favor of simple hacking ability. This sword is a weapon of finesse and versatility, capable of swings in all directions.”
“I’m more interested in how it was made,” Khriss said, regarding the weapon. It had a keen edge, almost like it were molten-forged, like bronze. There were no signs of chipping, and the blade appeared to be one solid piece.
Kenton ducked into the tree’s shade, grabbing himself a drink. “It’s easy,” he explained with a shrug. “The Kershtian weaponsmiths use a damp cloth, carefully forming the blade from a large chunk of carapace. They can make an extremely keen edge that way.”
“But, what if your opponent throws water on you?” Baon asked with a frown.
“It wouldn’t work,” Kenton said with a laugh. “The swords and armor are treated after they’re made, dipped in DoKall, which forms a sort of film on them that makes them water-resistant.”
“A good thing too,” Cynder noted. “It would be convenient if one’s weapon melted every time it drew blood from an opponent.
Kenton chuckled. “A very good point. Though, honestly, you’ll find more Kershtians with spears than swords—its a traditional Kershtian weapon. Swords are weapons for the shoed ones.”
“Shoed ones?” Khriss asked.
“That’s what they call Lossanders,” Kenton explained. “Kershtians don’t wear shoes—at least, not the ones who live on the kerla. They don’t need them—the sand is soft, and their calluses protect them from the heat. Shoes are actually a hindrance when moving across sand—you can run much faster without them.”
Kenton reached over, accepting the sword and sliding it back into place on his belt. Khriss watched him with a frown. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was sad for some reason. In pain. But, he hadn’t been hurt in the attack—what could be hurting him so much that even she could see it in his eyes?
She was growing increasingly distrustful of this daysider. He seemed nice enough, but she didn’t trust his answer as to why the Kershtians had tried to kill him. Trade between Lossand and the Kershtians wouldn’t go on for very long if zealots ambushed ever Lossander that tried to visit the trading towns
Baon thought the attack h
ad something to do with the golden sash Kenton kept concealed in his belt pouch. Baon assumed that the sash marked him as an elite soldier or a nobleman. His words made sense—it was after the sash had been seen that Kenton had grown worried. However, she didn’t believe that Kenton was a nobleman.
Khriss was not a master politician—she had spent too much time in her studies and away from the court. However, growing up as sole heir of one of Elis’ largest estates had necessitated training in diplomacy. Kenton was no diplomat.
True, he knew how to talk his way around topics and manipulate conversations. He acted like one who was used to debate. But, as deft as he was, Kenton would never have survived in court. He was too flagrant—too intentionally rude. He was witty and capable, but far too openly arrogant. The strangest thing about him was, however, how contrived that arrogance seemed—as if he challenged authority out of habit rather than intention.
However, Khriss was certain about one thing—habit or intention, it was annoying.
“Come on,” Kenton said. “We should get moving.”
“But, we haven’t even had lunch yet!” Acron protested. “I thought that’s why we stopped.”
“Not your lunch, their lunch,” Kenton said, nodding toward the tonks. The beasts had been hobbled together beside a broad patch of sand. “Sand isn’t by any means rare in Lossand, but a spot has to be a couple of inches deep for the tonks to graze. It’s always a good idea to give them a chance to eat when the opportunity arises.”
The weighty anthropologist groaned, casting longing eyes on the saddlebags beside him.
“You can eat on the way, Acron,” Kenton said. “We’re almost to Kezare—if we hurry, we could be there within a couple of days.”
Chapter Eight
“Well, at least the food’s good,” Acron mumbled, tearing at a large piece of jerky—an item that made up the majority of their stores.
“You like it?” Khriss asked incredulously. The meat was heavily spiced with a strong black powder—something Kenton called ashawen. Apparently, it was the favored Kershtian spice, but Khriss found it nearly inedible.