Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Winter knew him, though she had never seen him personally. Every member of the Colonials had heard the story of Malik-dan-Belial, the Steel Ghost of the Great Desol. He had been causing trouble for the prince and his Vordanai allies since long before the Redemption. Supposedly he was a sorcerer, or had made a pact with demonic powers. She’d always dismissed that kind of campfire story-but now, face-to-face with that blank, glowering mask, she thought about the arcane light that had bloomed under Feor’s hands and wondered. He didn’t need demonic powers, though. He had ten armed men, and she and Bobby wore only knives. Winter skidded to a halt, her heart pounding, and looked around for Feor.

One of the buildings letting onto the street was an ancient tumbledown stone place, little more than a wall around a central courtyard with more modern wooden buildings at the back. The makeshift front gates of this relic had been opened, and a small caravan was emerging.

First came a huge, bald man whom Winter recognized as one of the eckmahl , eunuch servants like the one who had originally accompanied Feor. Behind the giant walked an old woman, wrapped from head to toe in white linen under a tattered gray robe. She was supported on one side by a boy of fourteen or fifteen, who was also as bald as an egg. Another man walked beside her with the air of a bodyguard.

After these three came a cart, a four-wheeled vehicle with long wooden poles at the front and rear instead of traces. These had crossbars allowing men to haul the load, and there were eight-four ahead and four behind-doing just that. These men were dressed like ordinary Khandarai laborers, but they pushed with a measured, steady tread that spoke of coordination and training. Each of the haulers was trailed by a slowly dissipating wisp of white vapor, as though they were all smoking something in unison, and Winter caught a whiff of the smell of burning sugar.

At the sight of the interlopers, the old woman and her minders stepped out of the way of the cart. It proceeded slowly past the Desoltai and up the street, toward the edge of the city. Leaning on her young companion, the crone stepped carefully toward Feor, while the desert raiders looked at one another uncertainly.

The Steel Ghost said something, too quietly for Winter to catch. When the crone spoke, her Khandarai was dry but intelligible.

“We will attend to them in a moment.” Her eyes were fixed on Feor. “First I must welcome my poor wayward lamb.”

“Mother!” Feor fell to her knees, sobbing, and prostrated herself full-length on the dirt in front of the old woman. “Mother, I beg forgiveness.”

“Shhh,” the old woman clucked, in a tone that was not at all reassuring. “All will be well, my child. You have been away for a long time.”

Feor, head bowed, said nothing. The old woman looked up at the two Vordanai. Her face was invisible beneath a deep cowl, but the ends of bandages hung limp on her chest and swayed whenever she moved.

“And these are your friends?” she said. “Bring them here.”

These words finally broke through Winter’s indecision. Time to run. She didn’t want to leave Feor, but she and Bobby weren’t going to be able to rescue the girl from a dozen armed men. Maybe I can round up a squad or two and intercept them-

She grabbed Bobby’s arm and turned back up the street, then stopped in surprise. Standing in their path was the young man she’d assumed was a bodyguard, bald-headed like the rest but fit and dangerous-looking. She hadn’t seen him move. He raised his hands, blood dripping slowly from his palms.

“Don’t!” The shout came from Feor. “Mother, please. Leave them be. They saved me.”

“Did they?”

“Sir?” Bobby said quietly. “I can go left, you go right, and one of us should be able to hit him from behind. He hasn’t got a sword.”

The young man smiled at them. Winter swallowed hard.

“I don’t think that would be. . wise,” she said to Bobby.

“But-”

Footsteps behind them cut the discussion short. Three of the Desoltai arrived unhurriedly, and together with the bodyguard they escorted the two Colonials back up the street. The cart was still grinding away, and the rest of the Desoltai had gone with it, including the Steel Ghost. The old woman remained with Feor, who was speaking rapidly in low tones. Winter caught a few words-she was telling her story, sometimes tripping over her tongue in her effort to get it out quickly.

Something the girl said made the old woman look up sharply at Bobby. Winter kept one hand on the corporal’s arm, and she could feel her stiffen.

“She’s. .” Bobby put one hand to the side of her head. “I can feel something. Something’s wrong.”

Feor had finished, returning to her facedown crouch. The old woman ignored her, focusing on the two Vordanai. When she finally spoke, her tone was even less friendly than it had been.

“I had hoped for better sense from you, my child.”

“It seemed the only way. I owed them a debt.”

“There are no debts of honor with heretics,” the old woman snapped. “No deals with raschem .”

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Feor pressed her forehead to the ground. “Please. I beg for mercy.”

“Mercy,” the old woman said, almost contemplatively. Then she made a hawking noise, like she wanted to spit. “I cannot. Obv-scar-iot must be released to one who is more worthy of it.”

“I accept your judgment,” Feor said. “But these two-”

“Are raschem . If we let them go, they will fall into the grip of the schemer Orlanko. No.” She shook her head. “I grant you the mercy of a swift death. Onvidaer, see to it.” The hood swung up the street, toward the wagon. “We are falling behind. Akataer, with me.”

“Mother!” Feor looked up, anguish in her voice, but the old woman had already turned her back. The young man, Onvidaer, stood in her place, while the three Desoltai gathered closer around Winter and Bobby.

Three. Winter’s mind whirled desperately. There had to be a way out, somewhere. Turn and grab the sword arm of the closest? She might wrest the weapon away, if he was inattentive, but she was no swordsman. And Bobby would be left unarmed against the other two.

Her chest was tight. Once the old woman had passed out of sight, Feor climbed slowly to her feet and stood in front of Onvidaer. She was a head shorter than the young man, but she looked up at him with a mix of defiance and something Winter couldn’t quite place. Something seemed to pass invisibly between them.

Feor reached out and grabbed his hand, guiding it up to her own throat. She raised her chin slightly to let his fingers tighten around her windpipe, and there was a long, frozen moment.

Then Onvidaer let his hand fall away. “I cannot,” he said wonderingly.

“You must,” Feor said. Her throat was smeared with the blood from his palms. “She will feel my death. She must feel it.”

He shook his head. “I cannot.”

One of the Desoltai stepped forward. “I will take the duty, if it pleases you,” he said. His tone was respectful, but Onvidaer glared at him as though he were a poisonous insect.

“Please, Onvi.” Feor closed her eyes. “It is Mother’s judgment. I accept it.”

There were only two Desoltai watching her now. Winter tensed.

Onvidaer pursed his lips briefly, then appeared to reach a decision. The Desoltai who’d stepped forward opened his mouth to speak, but got no further. The young man stepped forward and brought his hand into the side of the desert raider’s head. The crack of shattering bone was audible, and the Desoltai was lifted off his feet to fall in a crumpled heap on the earthen street.