Lady of the Star Wind (12 page)

Preoccupied with helping the other men get the horses free of their harnesses and tethered to a hastily strung line, Mark glanced to where the two women were setting a small offering of fruit and water on the edge of the cracked altar.
 

Sandy rejoined him a few moments later, nibbling on a small piece of the fruit.

Mark attempted to make her comfortable in a sheltered corner beside a young tree growing from the ruptured basin of an ancient fountain. “Why’d you help her make a sacrifice?”

“The effort was obviously important to her. And somehow significant to me, as well.” Sandy’s tone conveyed her puzzlement, as did the frown on her face. “I don’t know—I felt welcomed when we got here.” Gazing at the tumbled ruins surrounding them, she shrugged. “It’ll be a gift from some higher power if we manage to stay safe through the storm, won’t it?”

Mark didn’t detect any welcome directed at him, but he’d settle for being out of the driving wind and sand. He didn’t begrudge the small amount of food and water spent on the sacrificial offering. Tia hadn’t used enough to make a difference in their long-term survival on this trek.

 
Although he didn’t agree, he didn’t argue with Rothan’s decision not to post a guard. The captain was in charge of this expedition, and more important, no one could make a move in the intense storm, not without an armored personnel carrier. He coughed, dust coating his throat. The air was full of it, coming in through cracks in the walls, or sifting from the roof above, shaken free by the force of the gale. The wind shrieked outside, tearing at the edges of the ancient building. The temple had stood for many centuries against such forces, so most likely the edifice would endure one more storm, and protect them. He could see faint murals on the wall near them, snakes winding through the stems of large flowers, stars and moons above.

Figuring a nap offered the best way to pass the time, he settled against the packs and eased Sandy onto his shoulder.
 

Wakening hours later, he told himself maybe the wind howled a bit less forcefully. Sandy stirred and sat up.

“Water?” Her lips were close to his ear.

He shook the canteen. “Empty. Wait a moment, and I’ll bring some from the chariot.” Stretching to unkink his legs, Mark crossed the sand-swept floor toward the vehicles.

Sandy’s scream behind him penetrated even the roar of the storm. Pivoting, he drew his blaster as he ran back to where she sat. Skidding to a stop on the gritty floor, he did a doubletake at the menace threatening her.

A large, milky white snake faced the princess, its body a powerful coil, head swaying six feet above the floor, fangs bared, hood flared. The hood was more than two handspans in width, pulsing as the serpent contemplated Sandy. The moment was one of those times when the world seemed to stop then flip into hyperdrive. Mark shot from point-blank range, but the blast went unaccountably wide, as if the reptile had a force shield. As he watched, the serpent lunged forward and bit Sandy on the arm. He shot again, but this blast also missed its mark.
 

The snake launched itself at him, sinking huge fangs into his wrist. The bite hurt like hot electrodes stabbed into his flesh. Hand already paralyzed and swelling as the snake released its grip, Mark dropped the blaster. He fell to his knees, holding his numb right wrist with his left hand. The snake stared at him for a long moment at eye level, hood pulsing as it considered its next move. The intensity of the reptilian intelligence in those turquoise eyes was frightening. With unhurried contempt, the snake uncoiled and slid away, into the debris-filled basin. Slithering behind the tree, the reptile disappeared from sight.

Crawling one-handed on his knees, Mark’s only thought was of reaching Sandy. She’d toppled backward, hitting her head on the edge of the pillar. Blood flowed freely from the graze on the back of her skull. She was unconscious, eyes rolled back into her head, but still breathing. Red and puffed, her bite wound bled sluggishly, ominous purple-black streaks progressing up her arm.

He groaned, resting his head on her stomach for a second in sheer frustration and pain. He checked his own wrist, but the damage appeared less severe than the wound Sandy’d received. The snake must have discharged most of its available venom into her before biting him.

His eyes weren’t focusing well. People tugged at him, pulling him away from Sandy. He fought Rothan and Djed as the pair moved him, all the while both of them trying to get a glimpse of the wound on his wrist. Tia pushed past him to lift Sandy’s arm, showing the bite to Rothan, shaking her head.

Stomach cramps and nausea assaulted Mark, and he fought to stay conscious. His guts were trying to turn themselves inside out. Convulsions swept over him, and the two men lowered him to the floor.

The wind continued to shriek outside, making conversation difficult. Tia ran to the chariots and fetched a small sack, from which she extracted a carved, salmon-pink stone vial and began to swirl paste of a matching color onto Sandy’s arm. Next, she rubbed the remainder into his wrist. Foaming as it touched his skin, the ointment soothed the exterior inflammation, but the venom kept burning in his veins. He realized the pain must be much worse for Sandy.
 

As Tia bound Sandy’s head wound with fabric ripped from her cloak, Mark staggered to the chariots and managed to retrieve her medical bag. Even as he undid the clasp, he admitted it was a useless gesture. She must have something for snakebite, but he’d no idea what. Blinking furiously, he stared at the injects and the other, sealed ampoules and packets, and cursed. In the Sectors, the military made the sergeants take field medicine, but officers like him didn’t receive any instructions.

In the course of his years of service, he’d endured countless injects designed to protect him from lethal bites and poisons found on a wide variety of worlds. The cumulative immunity offered him limited protection now, he realized. But Sandy obviously had no such reserves.

Slamming the bag shut, he realized the rest of the party was staring at him, varying degrees of sadness and distress on their faces. Stricken by a sudden intensification of the nausea, he leaned over and threw up everything he’d eaten earlier. When he progressed to dry heaves, Rothan and Djed half carried him to where Sandy lay, lowering him to sit beside her, resting against the cold stone wall.

Djed urged him to drink a few sips of the warm, brackish water, which he then spat out as his stomach heaved again.

“I’m so sorry.” Tia hugged him hard before seeking her place next to Rothan again.

Despite the numbness in his right arm, Mark gathered Sandy close. Head lolling, she was pale and in a cold sweat, but alive. Her eyelids fluttered, and her breathing was slow. He rocked her gently back and forth, ignoring the pain in his own arm, cursing his helplessness. Why had he coerced her into this mad journey into the Empty Lands? He’d rescued her from Kliin only to bring her to a painful death here on this alien planet.
 

Rothan checked on them some indeterminate time later. “Probably a desert viper, deadly. Although I’ve never heard of a white one. Nothing we can do, my friend. The poison must work its course. If she has a strong heart, she might survive. Try to keep her warm and yourself as well.”

Mark found himself unable to speak past the lump in his throat. With Rothan’s help, he wrapped them more securely in the cloaks.
 

He risked a glance at her arm, a vague idea of attempting a tourniquet on his mind. The whole arm was swollen twice its normal size, with purple streaks beneath her skin, spreading onto her chest now. Even he, with no medical training, realized it was far too late for a tourniquet to help. Mark grew lightheaded, the edges of his vision going black, and despite the self discipline his training provided, he couldn’t hang on to consciousness any longer.
 

When he woke up with no idea how long he’d been out, the storm raged unabated outside and all his companions were asleep. He put two fingers to Sandy’s neck, relieved to find a pulse, faint but steady.

Blinking, Mark tried to clear his head. Afraid he was suffering hallucinations, he stared at the opposite wall, which appeared to be moving. Four shapes emerged from the shadows, convincing him this was no vision, but reality. He tried to yell a warning as he struggled to rise, fumbling for his blaster. Reflexes severely impaired from the venom, he couldn’t make the transition from kneeling woozily upright to a standing position.

To his relief, Rothan and Djed leaped from their bedrolls to face the intruders, knives at the ready, the three soldiers hastily closing ranks behind them. Rothan engaged in a dialogue with the newcomers, involving a lot of gestures on both sides. The wind snatched away the sound. From his steadily less militant stance as the conversation went on, Rothan didn’t appear to find the mysterious arrivals a threat. After a particularly spirited burst of dialogue, the captain came to Mark, urging him to stand. The four newcomers, heavily swathed in robes and hooded cloaks, followed.

“I was wrong, you were right,” Rothan yelled to Mark, right in his ear. “There
are
people living in these lands. These men are Mikkonites, ancestral allies of the Khunarum.”

“Can they help Sandy?” The princess’s life was all Mark cared about.

The wind died down a bit.

One Mikkonite stepped forward, throwing back his red-striped hood to reveal intricately braided blue hair. “The woman was bitten?”

“Yes, a big snake bit us both, got her first,” Mark answered in High Chetal. “Must not have had much venom left when it got to me.”

The man studied the bite marks on Mark’s wrist before giving an order over his shoulder. He met Mark’s eyes. “I don’t recognize this fang pattern. Describe the serpent.”

“White. Long, maybe six feet, with a flared hood, iridescent diamond pattern on its scales. Turquoise eyes—listen, do you have anything to relieve her symptoms? Counteract the poison?”

The man stared at him. Mark began to think he hadn’t been understood. The dialect the strangers spoke sounded one step more removed from High Chetal. If not for the language lessons from Djed over the past few days, he wouldn’t have been able to communicate at all.
 

The Mikkonite leader shook his head. “We must get to our village. I’ve nothing with me to help her.”

“Forgotten about the storm?” Mark jabbed his thumb at the entrance to the temple, where sand swirled and winds howled with renewed ferocity. “How did you get here anyway?”

“The deserts of Khunarum are laced with secret tunnels, my lords. In the old days, the tunnels were used to keep trade going during the storm season. Why came you during this time?” he asked Rothan. “No one is safe to travel long distances above ground at this season.”

“The records regarding the Empty Lands are spotty. We’d no idea about the storms.” Rothan’s voice was defensive, as if the newcomers were accusing him of carelessness or poor planning.

“Our need is great.” Tia tucked the cloak tenderly around Sandy. “We had to risk it.”
 

“This storm will blow itself out in another day or so. Till then you may shelter with us in my village.” He bowed to Rothan and, with a shade less deference, to Mark. “I’m Jagrahim, headman of the Mikkonite.”

“Tunnels?” Mark considered the possibilities. “How big?”

“The passages were constructed to allow horses and carts to travel in safety, but nowadays there are too many cave-ins. We’ll have to leave your animals and send men to retrieve them later. Come, we must get the woman to the village where our healer can attempt to help her. We face a hike of several hours. I realize you must be weary and hungry, but there’s nothing I can do to lessen the distance.”

Mark wanted to carry Sandy himself, but the task was beyond him, as debilitated as the venom had made his body. Jagrahim directed his men to make a litter from some wooden panels and carry her on that. One by one, each person stepped behind the sliding wall of the temple, carefully descending a crumbling set of stairs. Djed supported Mark once they reached the tunnel floor. Ahead of them, the Mikkonite leader set a fast pace, going north in the dimly lit corridor.

Mark and Djed lagged behind, hampered by Mark’s condition and lack of coordination. He realized his mind was far from clear, but he pondered how Jagrahim had known Rothan’s party had taken shelter at the abandoned temple. His suspicion about coincidence made him wonder how trustworthy these new players were. Rothan might be happy to accept them as allies, but what did he know about the desert dwellers beyond legends? Rothan hadn’t even believed anyone lived in this area until half an hour ago.

And what provided the light in these tunnels? Mark didn’t see torches or lamps, yet there was enough ambient light for him to avoid obstacles and fallen stones with ease. He breathed fresh air too, which was puzzling since they were deep under the surface. Nothing added up satisfactorily for Mark, and his inability to concentrate on the situation frustrated him. He wasn’t used to being incapacitated and out of control. He brushed his free hand against the butt of his blaster for reassurance—as long as he had his weapon, he could protect Sandy.

The lingering effects of the venom struck him again like knives in the gut, and he doubled over, in the grip of dry heaves. The archer let him slump to the stone floor of the tunnel and called to the men ahead for someone to assist him. Aware they were hoisting him to his feet, Mark realized he was stumbling forward, but then his vision went black, and he knew no more.