In the Shadow of Swords (15 page)

Workers shrieked all around him, their familiar voices unrecognizable with panic. The demons attacked mercilessly, killing one
rahib
after another with the power and speed of lions and the dark intention of something much worse. Defense was impossible. No one had time to shout warnings; there was nowhere to run. With no belief that this could ever happen, and with no training in how to react, the
rahibs
stood helpless, stumbledblindly in circles, or crashed into bushes as the demons cut them down, tearing their bodies apart with tusks and claws. Screams reverberated through the valley, rising to unearthly wails or dying in wet gurgles. Everyone was slaughtered—peaceful clerics and hardworking farmers, even the group of orphans housed at the collective. The demons did not distinguish between holy and mundane, young and old, contented and ambitious. All fates ended in a scatter of broken bones and shredded flesh. Blood stained everything.

A few
rahibs
working farthest from where the demons began their slaughter understood what was happening. They ran for the safety of the fane’s walls, robes snapping behind them, mouths wide with terror. But the demons were on them long before they reached the sanctuary, cutting them down as a scythe harvests wheat.

One young
rahib
tried to clamber up a tree. A sharp claw caught him in the back, cleaving gashes so deep his viscera bulged out between the severed muscles. As he hung head down from the tree, his entrails slithered along the lower branches and trunk, landing on the ground in a warm red pile.

Blood spilled between the cupped hands of another
rahib
as he knelt, rocking on his heels, trying to hold his mutilated face together, making the soft braying sound of a newborn camel. The demon turned as if irritated by the noise, swiping at him again from behind. The
rahib
slumped forward, his face striking the hard earth, an arm tearing free.

The demons bit, tore and slaughtered their way across vineyard and orchard, working with savage efficiency until every one of their prey had been mauled, maimed and bloodily killed. The corpses of the fallen lay strewn across the landscape, and the footpath was a crimson river.

The creatures surveyed their work with fiery eyes and twitching noses. Blood spotted their yellowish tusks, and their hides frothed with rank sweat. They paced among the vines, bushes,and trees, searching the carnage for any trace of movement. If a voice moaned or a foot twitched, they crushed and ripped the body, scattering its parts.

Ommad cowered small and still beneath his low-lying bramble, but not quiet enough. In shock, he’d hunched motionless as a stone during the slaughter, but in the ringing silence after the final death screams, he began to tremble. He was still clutching his pruning tool like a weapon when the huge clawed feet stopped in front of his hiding place.

The foliage jerked away, catching Ommad’s robes and dragging him upright. The demon inspected him, determined that he was alive, and raised a clawed hand.

“No!” Ommad wailed, slicing the air with his pruning tool. The sharp edge caught the demon’s wrist, digging into leathery skin. The creature paused for an instant, looking almost puzzled. Then it twitched its wrist, snapping the iron blade, and followed through with its blow.

Ommad’s pain was brief, his final cry short.

19

THERE
WERE
others.

Twelve, to be exact. While Hersí and Bashír had been sent to Burj al-Ansour, they were not the only ones charged with this mission. They were each given this rare opportunity—a gift, to show the unbelievers. A true hand, not of some god that turned his back upon his children, but of
Pamankar
, the harbinger of things to come. He was destruction and despair, and they, the Carac, were his messengers.

Each of the summoners was at peace with his actions. Indeed, if tradition or training had permitted, they would have grinned like giddy boys. They were the true children of the god, the chosen ones. An adolescent looks to his parent for guidance and support, desiring to be true, faithful and obedient. And so the summoners basked in the approving glow of
Pamankar
.

Their actions were fair, they were just…

They were
right
.

Before the second sun rose above the Curtain of Night, all the lands of Miranes’ felt the power of the Carac. The hungry Ruwar demons ignored the panicked screams and pleas for mercy from those they hunted. Once summoned, they were ruthless in delivering the message:
Do not stray again
.

The summoners watched calmly as the creatures, bloodied from slaughter, paused in their rampage.

From their position within the protective circle, the Carac could see the outline of wine-terraced hills as the first sun began its ascent from behind them. As they watched, the demons returned. They stood in the clearing as if waiting for one final order. Hersí nodded in approval. Once full daybreak arrived, all evidence of the demons would disappear, banished to the darkness of the abyss. However, the new day had yet to fully appear.

The demons circled the house, coming together again at the open door. Neither man offered any challenge; they were content to watch the dawn break over the ridge.

“The first sun has still not risen,” Bashír said, looking out the window. Just then, the entire ridge of the steep, rocky hill began to glow with the sunrise.

“And we will not see the second ever again,” said Hersí, his voice low and calm. “Our duty is complete.”

Bashír bowed in silence and steeled himself against the baying of the demons outside.

“Are you ready?” Hersí asked.

“Yes.”

Bashír nodded again. The summoners cast one last look at the new sun. As they knelt and began to erase all traces of the protective circle, the silence deepened.

Their timing was perfect.

A faint tinge of a different light became visible on the distant horizon: the rising of the second sun. As he rubbed away the last of the protective circle, Hersí felt a shift in the air. Bashír stiffened beside him. The room was charged with tension as the demons neared the doorway, baying in gleeful anticipation.

The summoners would be allowed just enough time to finish the final part of their mission before departing for paradise.

It would occur with the full emergence of the second sun.

The demons separated as they approached, each choosing a summoner. Simultaneously, Hersí and Bashír lifted their arms in supplication, heads back, their black hoods slipping from their heads.

They welcomed the sun’s gentle warmth on their faces.

20

WORD OF the slaughter had reached the city.

The bold architecture of Tivisis, the winding pathways, the terraces and wide courtyards, all faded into shades of gray as Munif moved with strong purpose. It had begun to drizzle, the last heaving breaths of some faraway storm, but the rain did nothing to alleviate the blanket-like humidity.

Munif walked steadily, his soaked outer shirt tied around his waist to cool his burns and hide his raw legs from sight. His pants and shoes had been ruined by the fiery blast, and he’d discarded both in the alley where he’d nearly been killed.

The pain of his wounds cried for relief. The familiar trembling and terrible thirst had returned. He needed
affyram!

Munif had decided to shadow the squat man, knowing it would lead him to his target. Steeling himself against the agony and the hunger of his addiction, Munif was able to maintain a good distance without losing his target.

As he passed a darkened market, he made a quick detour andobtained a pair of low shoes and a couple of blankets, tossing money at the vendor without counting it, his eyes remaining locked on his prey. With the wool cloth wrapped around his face and body, he felt more confidence about moving unnoticed in the streets and staying dry in the inclement weather.

Munif was hurting, but the pain ran much deeper than the injuries inflicted by the Lamia’nar. Despite the shortcomings of men and their rulers, Munif believed in the Jassaj—he trusted in the cause for which he fought. Now his faith was shattered. One of his own had turned against him, a brother-in-arms whom he had trusted completely. The more he thought about this, the angrier he became—fueling the energy of pursuit and eclipsing his yearning for
affyram
.

Munif could not get the screams of the dying out of his head. Their cries of confusion, terror, and dismay were forever etched in his mind: the wave of fire igniting them, the heat consuming their bodies. When Munif had looked through the grate, he’d been greeted by the horror of their remains—they’d been caught in mid-action.

Then the traitor had shown himself. Now that man was just up ahead, leading the way to his master—someone Munif knew could only be one person.

Fajeer Dassai.

The heavy mist turned to a soaking rain as Munif continued to shadow his prey through the streets. Munif was sure the man wasn’t a professional. There was no sign of tradecraft; no sudden stops to stare at some meaningless item, no random turns to catch a glimpse of a too-familiar face. Munif shook his head. The fool didn’t check even once to see if he was being followed. More likely, it was just greed which lured the man in too deep with the help of Dassai. But the job wasn’t complete. He would go to his employer to report his failure, and would find out then just how expendable he was.

Pavanan Munif would use the employer to track down Dassai. He knew he must not let Dassai escape from Tivisis. Munif still needed to get word to the
misal’ayn
at Burj al-Ansour and alert Qatani authorities of the betrayal. But the location of the tower was miles away from Tivisis. By then, Dassai could have slipped away.

Once Dassai learned of Munif’s survival, he would not be safe; all trust was now gone. To make matters worse, Dassai had many spies in place, and they would be used against Munif.

Over the years, Munif had come to know of key flaw in Dassai—he was a man who often overreacted and panicked easily. In this state of heightened fear, he would make mistakes.

If Dassai eluded him here, Munif would have to get to Burj al-Ansour and alert Riyyal before Dassai’s lies could.

Munif had his own doubts.

21

RAVIEL DANOIR paused.

Winded and exhausted, he had finally reached his destination. His shoulders slumped.

It would be over soon.

The horses could smell him. Danoir made his way past the stalls, his shuffling feet destroying the carefully raked pattern in the dirt of the shedrow. Around him, he could hear the sound of disturbed animals. Hooves pawed nervously at straw bedding, and tails swished in agitation. Danoir could see the bared teeth, the tossing of manes. One trumpeted in defiance. Danoir wished he had the horse’s courage.

In the rear of the stable was a tiny room with a small oil lantern that glowed brightly. A young boy lay sleeping on a cot nearby.

He prodded the boy roughly, startling him awake. Danoir pointed to the door, and the boy hastily got out of bed and left the stable. Danoir licked his lips and waited for his fate. He could

feel his throat tighten. His heart thumped against his rib cage.

Niccolo Arzani stepped through the door, his robes hidden by a richly embroidered black cloak. He regarded Danoir with an ill-disguised sneer. Danoir opened his mouth to speak, but Arzani’s venomous tone stopped him. “It failed?”

Danoir nodded, awaiting the tirade.

“Tell me everything you know.”

Danoir explained it all, from the scream had he heard down the street, the three—not four—ash statues of the Jassaj, and how he couldn’t find Pavanan Munif anywhere. Arzani remained silent as he listened. When Danoir had finished, Arzani reached into the folds of his garments. Danoir winced as the advisor tossed something at him, but he caught the object by reflex. He knew without checking that it was a bag containing the remainder of his payment. He licked his dry lips. “You must… I need refuge!”

Arzani was already shaking his head. “No, Danoir. I cannot give you sanctuary. Get out now. If you are seen in this city tomorrow, you will be tried and hanged as a criminal. You’re finished in Tivisis.”

Danoir stood with his mouth open for a moment before shutting it with resolve and turning on his heel. His best option was to leave tonight.

There might not even be enough time to gather his things, but his mind eased as he realized he had escaped with at least one possession.

His life.

22

MUNIF WATCHED from the shadows.

Unaware of the Qatani spy just a few feet away, the squat man quickly packed clothes into a canvas travel bag.

Danoir was so absorbed in packing—so relieved that he had escaped death—that he didn’t react as Munif moved silently closer. He didn’t turn even as Munif pulled his blade and stabbed him at the base of the neck.

Munif ran it through, hard and downward, severing bone, flesh and nerves. He could hear the muted gurgling of blood pouring into the man’s throat. The death spasm was strong, clamping down as Munif struggled to pull the steel blade out. Danoir fell to the floor.

Munif paused, his senses alert.

He’d followed Danoir to the stables, hoping to overhear the conversation, but was unsuccessful. Still, it was clear the conspiracy went very high. Many had to be involved—perhaps even the lord of Tivisis himself. After Danoir left the stables, Munif followed him to his rundown flat and waited until nightfall.

Munif searched the disheveled room, but found nothing of use. He kicked a scattering of coins away and then thought better of it. With the lifeless eyes of Danoir staring back at him, Munif searched through the dead man’s clothing, finding a small vial. He pocketed it, then gathered up the coins and dropped them into a small pouch.

Finding bread and water in one of the larders, he ate wolfishly, hoping to satisfy the pangs of hunger he’d been feeling for the past hour. The coppery smell of the man’s blood did nothing to put off his appetite. When Munif finished, he rummaged through the wardrobes and found some linen cloth that he could use as bandages for his wounds. They would be loose on his legs,