Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

SIXMONTH, 961 I.A.

The wind blasted down the canyon, roaring like a mad dragon and raising great curls of dust. Varen turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut just in time to avoid it. Some of the other men did not, and their curses echoed from stone to stone. When the gust passed, half of them doubled over, gasping and spitting and dousing their faces with water to wash away the grit Around them, their guides-lean, sun-weathered men with beards dyed garish colors-laughed at their expense.

His sharp-featured face contracting into a scowl, Varen walked past the choking men, to the one who was their leader: a stout, oxlike fellow in chain mail, with an opal-encrusted longsword slung across his back. “This is the best you could do, Morias?” he asked in a low voice. “These men are idiots and fools.”

Morias Gall made a face that could have been a grin or a sneer; the old warrior was missing half his nose and part of his upper lip, so it was hard to tell. “They’re strong backs and strong arms,” he hissed-another scar ran across his throat. “You think you can find better, ride back to Jaggana and find ‘em”

“I need men with wits too,” Varen shot back. “If I wanted brainless muscle, I’d have brought a herd of minotuars. The way things are going, we won’t have way things are going, we won’t have enough of your strong backs left to carry our prize.”

This time, there was no mistaking Morias’s expression for a smile. A young man with no training at arms, Varen weighed maybe half what the grizzled warrior did, and stood more than a foot shorter. Morias could have broken him in half with one hand. But though the scholar paled slightly, he didn’t back down.

“Only I know how to get there,” he said. “Kill me, and you’ll never find your fortune.”

Morias glared at him a long moment, then grunted and turned away, raising a hand to call his men near.

Varen let out his breath What am I doing here? he wondered, not for the first time. A scholar from Tucuri, far away in Istar’s northern reaches, he had spent most of his life poring over tomes in that city’s renowned university. He could barely lift a sword, and riding horses left him almost crippled with saddle-sores. Only six months ago, the thought that he would be out here, in the wastes of Dravinaar, would have made him laugh. But here he was, deep in the desert, by men who would cut his throat-“give you a second smile,” as Morias quaintly put it-and leave him for the jackals if he looked at them wrong. Why?

It embarrassed him, how pedestrian the answer was. Riches … fame… a name others would remember.

Daubas Mishakas , the books called this labyrinth of mesas and gorges, carved out of the stone in the midst of the Sea of Shifting Sands-The Tears of Mishakal. The locals called it, rather more aptly, Raqqa az Zarqa : The Sun’s Anvil. Few lived here these days, for it was a cursed place, and the Dravinish claimed it was haunted. Once, however, one of Istar’s grandest cities had stood in its midst, carved out of the rock itself: Losarcum, the City of Stone. It had been a thriving place, the pearl of the desert, a wonder of the world.

That had all ended in thunder and fire, seventeen years go. It had happened during the holy war against wizardry, when the forces of the Istaran church had sought to storm the Towers of High Sorcery. Treacherous to the end, the mages had destroyed two of those Towers. One had leveled a large part of Daltigoth, the capital of faraway Ergoth. The second had been in Losarcum, and it had brought the whole city to ruin, smashing it and burying it beneath countless tons of rubble.

In the years since, many treasure-hunters had come to the Tears in search of Losarcum’s ruins. The wealth that must be buried beneath the rubble was enough to tempt many, from itinerant adventurers to the holy church itself. Thus far, however, no one had found more than a few baubles and potsherds. But then, three months ago, Varen-whose discipline at the university had been antiquities-had received a journal, recovered from an ill-fated expedition into the Tears. Its author had written of a passage, a cave that led to a “land of glass,” where great riches could be found.

Varen had decided, then and there, that he would be the one to find the lost bones of Losarcum. The time since was a blur. He’d spent another month in study, piecing together all he could, then quit his post, taken all his silver, and traveled south to Jaggana, a city renowned for its sell-swords. There he’d met Morias, and a week later they’d set out into the desert with fifteen hired mercenaries and a handful of Dravinish guides.

The mercenaries were down to ten now. One had died on the way, overcome by heat poisoning. Three more had fallen to the creatures that lived in these parts: giant, hairy spiders and snakes that could spit deadly venom a dozen paces. The fifth had lost his temper with Varen the day before yesterday-their eighth in the Tears-and had drawn his blade on him. Morias had put a dagger through the man’s throat, then hung the body from a cactus as a warning to the rest. The way they looked at Varen-and the way they fingered their swords and maces-they still weren’t feeling very friendly.

Fine, he thought. I didn’t come here to make friends.

Morias was snapping at his men. Varen eyed them, wondering if they would try to kill him once they found the treasure. He’d lied to them, talking of other caches he’d heard about, in the hope it would stay their hands. Now he looked past them, at the canyon’s snaking, ridged walls. He pulled a map from his belt and unfurled it, studying it as the wind tried to snatch it from his hands. They were close now-had to be. According to the map, Losarcum was less than a league away. He prayed the maze of chasms wouldn’t betray him.

A sudden shout snapped him out of his contemplation, and he turned in time to see steel flash among the Dravinish guides. His insides lurched before he realized they didn’t mean to attack. One had drawn his curved saber and brought it down to stab something on the ground. The man twisted his blade back and forth, then raised it again to reveal a snake impaled upon its tip. The serpent twitched feebly, and the Dravinishman flashed a smile full of white teeth-then stopped, eyes widening, and flung the blade to the ground. He shouted something in Dravinish, backing away. His fellows did the same.

Morias and Varen reached the saber at the same time. The sell-sword bent down to pick it up, then flinched back. “Huma’s balls!” he swore.

The snake had legs.

Basilisk! Varen thought, panic surging within him. Dravinaar had once been rife with the fell beasts whose gaze could turn a man to stone-but men had wiped them out more than a century ago. And at second glance, he knew the creature wasn’t one. It was a bonetail, a particularly deadly serpent, but six stubby legs, each ending in a single talon, stuck out of its sides.

“Strange,” he said.

“Bloody right,” Morias rasped. “What in the Abyss did that?”

“Sharaz Qunai,” murmured the man who’d killed it.

Morias and Varen looked at him blankly. Neither spoke more than a smattering of Dravinish.

“The Staring Ghost, it means,” said Pashim, the leader of the guides. He drew a hand down his swarthy face, a ritual gesture against evil. “He haunted these parts, near the city-that-was. He curses those who come too close, as he cursed old man serpent.” He nodded toward the snake, then shook his head. “My men will go no farther.”

“What!” Morias’s face colored as he stepped forward, towering over Pashim. “That wasn’t the bargain. We paid you good silver to take us all the way.”