David Farland - Wizardborn

Raj Ahten doubted that he could stop the Ah’kellah. If he tried to catch the men, they would fan out like grouse fleeing the falconer. He might get one or two, but the rest would elude him.

He suspected that their report could have dire consequences. Raj Ahten had conquered all the nations of Indhopal, but some of them had been under his dominion for less than a year. They were like spirited colts that had not yet been broken. They bucked and bit at him while he gouged with his spurs.

They would be eager to throw off his rule, and Wuqaz Faharaqin was the type of man to lead them.

Yet Raj Ahten also had to wonder at the “trouble in Kartish.” If a lord at this distant outpost had heard of misfortune, how bad might the situation there be?

He impatiently took breakfast as he waited for Bhopanastrat and a dozen force soldiers to prepare for the journey. He dined on a rich pigeon stew made with onions, and flavored with plums, saffron, and ginger.

Raj Ahten sat for a moment, began rubbing his left wrist. He felt a numbing pain in the arm. He wondered at it, could not think how it might have been injured.

He was, he suspected, alive now only because of the vast number of endowments he’d taken.

He thought of the flameweavers in their balloon, riding the east wind faster than his horse. They’d invited him to join them, to become one of them.

In company with Bhopanastrat and a dozen men, Raj Ahten forged north across the desert borders, racing through encampments and villages named only after the clans that settled them—Isgul, Qanaat, Zelfar.

The desert came alive at this time of year. Small flowers took the opportunity to bloom after every spat of rain, and it had rained three days before. Bouquets of salmon-colored flowers blossomed on the grease-wood, while the ground was strewn with a carpet of white.

Birds were everywhere. Bright yellow bee-eaters streaked across the land like fiery arrows, skimming among the flowers. Lapwings raced away from him on stilted legs, feigning broken wings to draw him from their nests, and filled the morning with their mournful peewit, peewit. Sand grouse by the thousands perched on the banks of streams, looking like round speckled brown rocks until they erupted into the sky.

Everywhere that Raj Ahten rode, the illusion that he’d seen from afar—that the deserts of Muttaya were barren and lifeless—was dispelled.

He stopped once again at a fortress in Maksist to trade his horses for camels. He asked the warlord in charge about Wuqaz.

The warlord said warily, “I did see the men you seek. The Ah’kellah left the village only half an hour ago. Some took camels south, others took horses to the north and west.”

“How many men went south?” Raj Ahten asked.

“Twelve men, O Light of the Universe.”

Raj Ahten bit his lip. He was only half an hour behind them now. If he hurried, he would catch them.

“Give me your best force camels.”

“My lord,” the man said hesitantly, a worried expression on his brow. “Salaam.”

“Peace,” Raj Ahten assured him.

“The camels I have are not worthy of you. The riders you seek—they took my best animals and kept spares for palfreys.”

Raj Ahten began to seethe. “Is there a merchant in this city who will have the camels I seek?”

“I will gather the best animals in the city,” the man said. “Meanwhile, sit at my table, eat your fill. Rest.”

The warlord took a horse and raced from the fortress. True to his word, he came back shortly with thirteen force camels.

“Forgive me,” he said as he leapt from his horse. “These are the best I could find.” He got on his hands and knees, then bowed deeply, so that his white turban swept the ground.

It was the pose of one who offered his life to atone for an indiscretion.

He is a wise man, Raj Ahten realized. If I were angry, I might order him tortured to death. This way, he tempts me to take him quickly.

“You serve me well,” Raj Ahten said. He took the beasts gratefully.

He ordered the captain to get eighty men on horses and take them west and north, to hunt for the Invincibles in that band.

He wished that he knew which direction Wuqaz Faharaqin had gone. Raj Ahten went to the road at the edge of town, and for long moments he tried to catch Wuqaz’s scent. He rode now atop a camel with a dozen other men, and Raj Ahten could not tell from the faint traces in the air which party he rode with.

Raj Ahten could not let him live. Nor could he afford to take the time to hunt the man down.

South, he decided at last. Wuqaz would go south into Taif, or Aven, where the Ah’kellah were most revered.

Raj Ahten led a dozen of his best men south into the desert, heading through old Indhopal toward Kartish.

The first leg of the journey was easy. The ground lay flat and hard.

Baobab trees grew on the verge of the desert, rising up in twisted majesty. During certain seasons, wildebeests and gazelles migrated through the region in vast herds, but this late in the fall only a few dry bones garnished the prairie. Ostriches and jackals loped away as his men approached.

After they forded the muddy Deloon River, all of the watercourses went dry. It had not rained this far south.

The wells at Kazir and Makarang were both dry. It was not until he saw camels tied by a bright red pavilion pitched beneath a baobab tree half a mile from the caravan way that they found water.

The baobab had a trunk thirty feet wide, and an enterprising trader had hollowed it out. The hollow held clay cisterns of precious water.

Upon seeing the thirteen men riding out of the desert, the trader grew uneasy. Only the worst kind of marauders would dare steal a man’s water, but the worst kind of marauders sometimes traveled this road.

He rested his hand upon his khivar as Raj Ahten approached, and stared at him from eyes as brown as ripe almonds. He was an elderly man, with a beard trimmed impeccably. The old man bowed.

Raj Ahten hailed him, tried to put him at ease. “Salaam. The trail is dry, and I feel weighed down by too much money.”

“Let me lighten your load, O Great One,” the trader said with a satisfied grin, “while you drink your fill.”

With that, Raj Ahten dismounted and found a place to sit under the shade of the baobab. Raj Ahten took out a silver flask he’d brought from Salandar. It was filled with lemongrass tea flavored with honey made from morning primrose.

As a preamble to conversation, the two men shared introductions, and Raj Ahten offered a drink to the old man, for as the old proverb went, “In the desert, drink must come before trust, trust before friendship.”

For a moment they talked cordially of poetry, weather, and the health of the old man’s sister. The man recognized Raj Ahten and showed by his cordial demeanor that he, too, was of good breeding.

“Twelve men came riding from the north, did they not?” Raj Ahten finally asked.

“Yes, men of the Ah’kellah, in a great hurry,” the man said. “They were rude.”

“Ah,” Raj Ahten said, fearing that he’d asked his question too soon, had given offense. “Men on the run are seldom polite. Did they speak of their destination?”

“They are going south to raise the Atwaba,” the old man said. “They are angry with our beloved lord.”

“Indeed?” Raj Ahten asked, feeling mirthful. The trader was being extraordinarily polite by pretending that he did not recognize Raj Ahten. “What did they say?”

“May my tongue be cut from me if I ever repeat such tales!” the old man intoned.

“It is a secret safe with me.”

“They say that Raj Ahten, bless his name, broke a truce and sought to kill the Earth King, his cousin by marriage.”

Raj Ahten grinned. “I am sure that it is all a misunderstanding. When I meet these men, I will clear it up.”