The Amber Enchantress

THIRTEEN THE DEAD GROVE

Sadira limped past a pyre of blazing tree trunks and entered the shade of the covered alley, coughing violently from the fumes of burning agafari wood. It was a hot, windless morning, and the smoke of the fires hugged the ground like a cloud of dust sinking to earth. The haze in the plaza hung so thick it was impossible to breathe without choking on mordant-tasting ash, and anyone standing more than a few feet away seemed no more than a ghostly silhouette.

In spite of the flames, Nibenese slaves labored throughout Sage’s Square, felling withered trees and throwing the blackened trunks onto mountainous fires. Somewhere in the smoke, an ensemble of the city’s finest ryl pipers filled the air with sorrowful notes, accompanying a morose singer lamenting the loss of the ancient grove.

“Did you find our guide?” asked Magnus.

“No,” Sadira answered. Already, it was well past dawn and they had seen no sign of Raka, or anyone else sent by the Veiled Alliance. “You’re certain you saw the boy escape the emporium?”

“Yes,” the windsinger answered. “A pair of slaves freed him from the rubble as I carried Faenaeyon down the aisle. He went with them, staggering, but under his own power. After that, I don’t know what happened. I was attacked by the Shom guards, and I lost sight of him.”

Through the smoke filling the alley, Sadira could just make out the cape the windsinger had used to bandage his wounds. Behind him loomed Faenaeyon, stooped over to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The elven chief still seemed groggy and unsteady, but had emerged from his stupor enough to walk on his own. After escaping the emporium, one of the first things the sorceress had done was pour half the antidote down her father’s throat. Then Sadira had asked Magnus to use his magic to heal her. Fortunately, the windsinger had been able to neutralize the venom of the cilops and stop the bleeding, but the sorceress’s leg remained sore enough that she found walking both difficult and painful.

Next to Faenaeyon stood Huyar, dutifully lending an arm of support to his father and chief. Rhayn was the only one absent from the group. She had gone to fetch Sadira’s kank, so that the sorceress could keep up once the company left the city.

After a moment, Huyar said to Sadira, “Perhaps your friend betrayed you. It would be the wise thing, after all.”

“Don’t make the mistake of judging the Veiled Alliance by your own standards,” Sadira replied, upset by the elf’s gloating tone.

“Whether the guide betrayed you or not makes no difference,” said Faenaeyon. His words came slowly and with a thick slur, for it was the first time he had spoken since emerging from his stupor. “It seems we must find our way out of the city.”

“That won’t be easy,” Sadira said. “I almost killed the sorcerer-king’s son yesterday. I doubt the gate guards will just let us leave.

“Even the walls of Nibenay have their cracks.” Faenaeyon said, giving her a reassuring smile. “Sneaking you out of the city shall be my repayment for rescuing me.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already negotiated my fee for that,” she said, casting a meaningful glance at Huyar.

“She has?” the chief asked, looking to his son. “What?”

Huyar gulped. “I’d said we’d take her to the Pristine Tower.”

Faenaeyon glared at him. “Then perhaps you shall be the one who takes her there.”

“But I don’t know where-”

“Go to Cleft Rock and follow the sunrise until you see the tower!” the chief growled. He grabbed Huyar by the neck and pulled him close. “How could you endanger the tribe by offering such a thing?”

“It was only way she’d ask her friends to find you,” Huyar said. “Besides, we don’t have to keep the promise-”

“Is Faenaeyon’s life worth so little to you?” demanded Sadira.

“My chief’s life is as dear to me as my own,” replied the elf. “But so was Gaefal’s-and I won’t let his death go unpunished.”

“Then find out who killed your brother and avenge yourself,” Sadira snapped. “But if you value Faenaeyon’s life, you’ll keep your promise to me.”

The chief scowled and stepped toward the sorceress. “Are you threatening me?”

Sadira shook her head. “No. But I would expect that repayment for saving the chief’s life is the one debt his tribe would honor.”

Faenaeyon studied Sadira for several moments, then said, “First, we must escape the city. Then we’ll decide what to do about the Pristine Tower and Gaefal’s death.” He chuckled at the sorceress, then laid a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever I decide, don’t think that I will forget what you did. I admire your bravery and cunning.”

Sadira shrugged off the chief’s hand. Before she could tell Faenaeyon she cared more about reaching the tower than what he thought of her, Magnus interrupted.

“She inherited her courage and quick wit form her father,” said the windsinger. “Isn’t that so, Sadira?”

Faenaeyon narrowed one pearl-colored eye and looked Sadira over from head-to-toe. “I thought your name was Lorelei?”

The sorceress shook her head. “No. It’s Sadira-Sadira of Tyr.”

“Barakah’s daughter?” The words were as much an exclamation as they were a question.

“I’m surprised you remember her name,” the sorceress answered.

Faenaeyon’s thin lips twisted into a wistful smile. “My famous daughter,” he said, reaching out to stroke her henna-dyed locks. “I should have known it from the start. You have your mother’s beauty.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sadira spat, slapping his hand away. “My memories are of a haggard, broken-hearted crone abandoned to slavery by the only man she ever loved.”

Faenaeyon’s mouth fell open and he seemed genuinely perplexed. “What else should I have done?” he asked. “Take her from Tyr and her own people?”

“Of course!” Sadira answered.

Now the elf looked thoroughly confused. “And then what? Keep her as a daeg?”

He spoke the last word in a derogatory tone. A daeg was a spouse-either a male or female-stolen from another tribe. Daegs lived in a state of serfdom until the chief decided they had forgotten their loyalties to their old tribe. It could be many years before a daeg was accepted as a full member of the new tribe, and sometimes they never were.

“That would have been better than what happened,” Sadira spat.

“You know nothing,” Faenaeyon scoffed. “Barakah was not an elf. The Sun Runners would never have accepted her as anything but a daeg, and our chief would have given you to the lirrs the instant you were born.”

Overcome by anger, Sadira shoved her father as hard as she could. The big elf barely budged. Scowling angrily, he grabbed her by the arm.

“Let me go!” Sadira hissed, reaching for her satchel.

“Quiet,” Faenaeyon replied, pushing her toward Magnus. With his free hand, he pulled the dagger from the sheath on Huyar’s hip.

Sadira heard the clack of two weapons striking each other, then turned and saw her father parry the slash of the obsidian barong. No one wielded the heavy chopping knife; it simply danced through the air on its own. Faenaeyon made a grab for the handle, then narrowly saved his hand by dodging away as the blade flashed at his wrist.

Suddenly ignoring his weapon, the chief rushed down the alley. At the end of the dark lane stood a boyish silhouette, his fingers pointed at the floating barong. The youth waved his hand in Sadira’s direction, and the heavy knife streaked toward her head.

The sorceress dropped to the street. As she rolled over the grimy stones, her injured leg erupted into fiery agony. She cried out, then came to rest against a pair of massive feet with ivory toe-claws. The barong descended toward her neck, but Magnus’s arm flashed out and smashed the black blade against the stone wall.

Sighing in relief, Sadira looked down the alley and saw Faenaeyon raising his dagger to strike at Raka. “Don’t kill him!” she screamed.

The elf’s blade stopped in midair, and he grabbed the boy. “But he tried to murder you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sadira answered, rising to her feet. “That’s our guide. Bring him here.”

Faenaeyon raised his peaked eyebrows as if she were mad, but did as asked. He used one band to keep Raka’s arms pinned, and held the other ready to cut the boy’s throat. When they reached Sadira, the young sorcerer glared at her with undisguised loathing. His face was covered with scrapes and lumps from being trapped under the falling arch, but otherwise he seemed to have emerged unscathed.

“You promised to help us escape the city,” Sadira said, returning Raka’s angry stare with a look of forbearance. “Why did you try to kill me instead?”

“You betrayed me,” the youth snapped. “My master has barred me from the Alliance.”

“What for?” Sadira asked, shocked.

“I cannot believe you must ask,” Raka replied, shaking his head angrily. “I vouched for you, and you’re a defiler. We saw you casting spells yesterday.”

Sadira’s stomach felt as though the youth had punched her. She bit her lip and looked away. “I don’t expect you to approve of my methods,” she said. “But it was the only way I could stop Dhojakt. I had no choice.”

“You could have died honorably,” Raka sneered.

“To what end?” Sadira demanded, now growing as angry as the boy. “So the Dragon can keep terrorizing Athas?”

“That would be better than helping him to destroy it,” Raka replied.

He jerked free of Faenaeyon’s grasp, then grabbed Sadira by the arm and pulled her to the end of the alley. “That grove was as old as Nibenay itself,” he said, pointing at the shriveled trunks of the agafari trees. “The sorcerer-king himself proclaimed it a refuge, and no defiler every dared to touch it-until Sadira of Tyr came.”

“I’m sorry your trees died,” Sadira said bitterly. “But stopping the Dragon is more important-or doesn’t the murder of thousands of people mean anything to you?”

“Of course,” Raka answered, his attitude softening. “But so do those lives.”

Sadira shook her head. “Call me a defiler if you like, but if I must choose between people and plants, I’ll take the people every time.”

“I’m not talking about the trees,” Raka said. He gestured at a dozen slaves struggling to throw a heavy bole on the nearest fire. “The king kept a hundred slaves to tend this grove,” he said. “Once they finish clearing it, the guards will make them join their charges on the pyres.”

The sorceress felt a terrible weight on her chest. “You can’t blame me for that,” she said. “I couldn’t have known.”

“You should have,” Raka countered. “Someone dies whenever you defile the land. Maybe not right away, but when they’re hungry for the faro that used to grow there, or when they need meat and leather from lizards that once grazed there.”

“That’s enough,” Faenaeyon said, roughly pulling Raka back into the alley. He raised a hand to cuff the youth. “Stop preaching and-”

“Don’t hurt him,” Sadira said, grabbing her father’s arm. “He’s right.”

Taking her comment as a signal to continue, Raka said, “What’s worse, you’re killing the future. If the land will grow no food, not only does the man die, so do his children-and all the children that would have lived there for the next thousand years.”

The young sorcerer had just finished his lecture when Rhayn approached from the other end of the tunnel.

“Good,” called the elf. “The guide’s here.”

Noting that her sister did not have her mount, Sadira asked, “What about my kank? I can’t go very far like this.”

“It wasn’t there. I’ll tell you why later,” said Rhayn. “But right now, we’d better go-there’s a press gang coming this way.”

“A press gang?” gasped Faenaeyon. “I’ve never seen that in Nibenay.”

“The sorcerer-king’s son has never been wounded before,” said Raka. “He has sent his templars out to gather sacrifices to make Dhojakt well.”

Magnus frowned. “No healing magic I know demands a living sacrifice.”

“Sorcerer-kings have their own kinds of magic,” Sadira said, turning to Raka. “Will you help us leave the city?”

When the youth shook his head, Huyar grabbed him by the throat. “You’ll show us or die!”

“Then I’ll die,” gasped a youth. He glanced at Sadira. “I won’t aid a defiler.”

Sadira tried to pull Huyar’s arms away. “Let him go,” she said. “You won’t save us by killing him.”

Instead of releasing the youth, Huyar pressed his thumbs into the boy’s gullet. A terrible gurgling sound came from Raka’s throat as he struggled to free himself.

The sorceress turned to her father. “This will accomplish nothing,” she said.

The warrior reluctantly took his hand from the boy’s throat, then pushed him away. “Go, and be happy Sadira of Tyr is a forgiving fool,” he said.

From the far end of the alley came the shuffle of dozens of stumbling feet, accompanied by the cracking of whips and the harsh commands of Nibenese templars. When the youth grasped his bruised throat and started in the opposite direction, Faenaeyon caught him by the shoulder.

“Not into Sage’s Square,” said the chief, pointing Raka toward the press gang. “You can repay me by serving as a decoy.”

“That’s not why I saved him,” Sadira objected, taking Raka’s arm. “He’ll come with us. If it comes to a fight, we’ll all be better off.”

The youth pulled free of the sorceress. “I’d rather take my chances with the templars than a fight at defiler’s side.” With that, he reached into his purse for a spell component, then ran down the alley screaming. “Death to Dhojakt!”

“Raka!” Sadira cried. “No!”

She started to follow, but Faenaeyon caught her arm and held her back. “This way, daughter,” he said, carrying her into Sage’s Square.

They had barely entered the smoky plaza when an olive-colored light flashed from the alley, accompanied by a sonorous hiss of air. For a moment, Raka’s triumphant voice echoed through the lane, but it was abruptly cut off by the sizzle of a lightning bolt.

Ahead of Faenaeyon, a trio of huge silhouettes came rushing toward the clamor. In one hand, each of the half-giants carried a curved sword, and in the other a trident with barbed tongs. The dark circles of their eyes were fixed on Faenaeyon and his group of elves.

“If I put you down, you won’t do anything foolish, will you?” whispered the chief.

“I’ll be fine,” Sadira answered, her voice unusually timid. Raka’s last words weighed heavily on her mind, and she found herself wondering if she really could justify all the vile things she had done in the name of fighting the Dragon.

The half-giants stopped in front of Faenaeyon. “What’s that noise?” demanded the leader, regarding the elf suspiciously.

“Alliance ambush,” Faenaeyon answered, casting a nervous glance in the direction of the alley. “It looks like they’re coming this way-probably to attack you.”

“Why d’you say that?”

Faenaeyon looked in the direction of the alley again. “Haven’t you heard? Sadira of Tyr’s in the city,” he said. “If you ask me, she’s come to free the slaves, like she did in her own city.”

The comment set Sadira’s heart to pounding madly, but the half-giants remained oblivious to her discomfort. Instead, they studied each other with worried expressions, then the leader waved the group onward. “You keep quiet about that sorceress,” he warned. “No one’s supposed to know she’s here.”

The chief shrugged. “If that’s what you want, but you hear of nothing else in the Market,” he said. “Which way to the Snake Tower from here?”

The half-giant pointed toward the hazy mouth of another alley, then took his two companions and cautiously crept toward the lane where Raka had just perished. Faenaeyon led the group across the plaza, half-carrying the sorceress to prevent her limp form being too noticeable.

As they passed through the covered lane, the chief finally released Sadira’s arm.

“You were a little brazen back there, weren’t you?” the sorceress asked.

It was Rhayn who answered. “It’s the best way,” she said. “Otherwise, they think you’re trying to hide something.”

“We are-remember?” Sadira replied, her limp forcing her to struggle in order to keep up with the others. “And what happened to my kank? Did the liveryman have it killed?”

“I think you have it backwards,” answered Rhayn. “According to his slaves, when the old man opened the gate to have someone look it over, the drone grabbed him and left. His assistants followed the thing to the palace gates, where your beasts performed some tricks for the guards. After that, both the kank and the man were taken inside. Neither one’s been here since.”

“Tithian!” Sadira hissed.

“What does your king have to do with this?” asked Faenaeyon.

“According to Dhojakt, Tithian’s the one who told him I was in Nibenay,” Sadira answered.

Magnus shook his head in bewilderment. “How?”

“Through the kank,” Sadira replied. “Tithian’s become a fair mindbender. I think he’s been using the Way to spy on me through my mount. That’s the only way he could have known I’m in Nibenay, or that I was going to the Pristine Tower.”

“I thought Tithian was supposed to be a good king,” said Faenaeyon. “Why would he betray you?”

“You were a better father than Tithian’s been a king,” Sadira retorted. “As for his betrayal, apparently he doesn’t want me going to the Pristine Tower. Neither does Dhojakt.”

“So perhaps you should rethink your plans,” suggested Faenaeyon, ignoring the sorceress’s backhanded slight. “If the son of a sorcerer-king doesn’t-”

“I’m going,” Sadira interrupted. “If they’re so determined to keep me away, there must be good reason. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’ve got to hurry. It won’t be long before the Dragon reaches Tyr, and I want to be waiting for him,”

“Then by all means, let us hurry,” Faenaeyon said, somewhat sarcastically.

The chief led the way out of the alley and into a broader street that ran along the back side of the merchant emporiums. He always moved more or less toward the mountainous bluff on the north side of the city, stopping occasionally to ask his way. Sometimes, the nervous pedestrian would refuse to answer, scurrying past with a protective hand on his purse. More often, the passerby appeared relieved that the elves had only stopped for directions and not to accost him.

The walk was hard on Sadira’s injured leg. Even had she been healthy, it would have been a struggle to keep pace with the elves’ long legs. Now, with them in a hurry and every step a struggle for the sorceress, it was all but impossible. Within a half hour, she had to ask them to slow down.

“Perhaps we should hide in the city for a day or two,” Magnus suggested. “I can’t do anything more for your leg until tomorrow, and without a kank you won’t make it more than a few miles into the desert.”

Sadira shook her head. “No, we must leave today. From what Raka said, the sorcerer-king’s busy healing his son. When that’s done, he may turn his attention to me.”

“In that case, perhaps we should leave Sadira here,” Huyar suggested, looking at his father. “We wouldn’t want to endanger the tribe on her behalf.”

“I decide when the tribe is in peril, and on whose behalf we should endanger it,” Faenaeyon said, frowning at his son. “If necessary, you’ll carry Sadira on your back.”

“Thank you,” the sorceress said. “It’s nice to know you can be a man of honor.”

Faenaeyon smiled insincerely. “Thank you.”

“But before we leave the city, there’s one thing I need to get,” she added.

Her father’s smile vanished. “No,” he said, starting off again.

“It won’t be much trouble,” Sadira insisted, “and I’ll need it when I reach the Pristine Tower.”

Faenaeyon stopped and gave her a puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Obsidian balls,” she answered. “For the shadows.”

By the way the color drained from her father’s face, the sorceress knew he had seen the shadows when he visited the tower. After a moment, Faenaeyon regained his composure, then asked, “Do you have any coins?”

“Of course not,” Sadira answered. “You took all-”

“I have no coins, either,” the elf answered. “And now is no time to steal them. If you need obsidian, we’ll trade for it on the trail, or take it from a caravan.”

Before she could object, Faenaeyon motioned to Magnus and Rhayn. “See that she keeps up,” he said, resuming his pace.

It was not much longer before they came to a small plaza. Across the square rose the sheer-sided bluff that bordered Nibenay’s north side. Carved into the rocky face of this crag were dozen different palaces, each a different height above the ground. Above the mansions, a low stone wall crowned the cliff, forming the defensive fortifications that protected this part of the city.

Before the cliff, separated from it by a short distance, rose a high tower. It had been fashioned in the form of a tangle of coiled snakes, with hundreds of scale-shaped windows glistening along its exterior walls. At the base of the turret, the entrance was shaped in the form of a serpent’s gaping mouth.

A meandering skywalk, also carved in the shape of a serpent, ran from the tower to each cliffside palace. The highest walkway ran to the city wall, atop which Sadira could barely make out the tiny forms of a half-dozen sentries scattered over a distance of many yards.

Faenaeyon led his small group to the base of the tower. As they reached the mouth of the stone serpent, a pair of mul guards stepped out to block their path. The two men were armed with curved swords of obsidian, and wore tabards bearing the crest of a black scorpion. Although neither appeared much older than Rikus, their bodies had grown soft. To Sadira, their appearance suggested that they were the pampered gladiators of a nobleman, and had been retired from combat for use as household guards.

The sorceress’s father tried to walk directly between the two men, not bothering to acknowledge them. The tallest mul placed a hand on the elf’s chest and shoved him back down ramp.

“Where are you going?” the guard asked.

Faenaeyon glared at the mul. “I’ve business with Lord Ghandara,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

The two muls lowered their swords, but did not step aside. “No one told us to expect you,” said the second one.

“That’s because I haven’t announced myself,” Faenaeyon replied. He grabbed Sadira by the arm and pulled her roughly forward. “I thought perhaps he might be interested in making a purchase.”

Accustomed to the role of a slave, Sadira lowered her chin and looked frightened. At the same time, she allowed her pale eyes to wander over the muls, as though unable to resist the temptation of admiring their bodies.

Her silent appeal worked well. The mul circled around her, studying her figure from every angle. “Lord Ghandara has fine tastes,” said the tallest. “I’m not sure this stock is up to his standards.”

Sadira lifted her chin and scowled, then bit her lip as though preventing herself from making a sharp retort. As she had hoped, the guards laughed, then stood aside. “I’ll show you the way,” said the tallest.

“No need to trouble yourself,” answered Faenaeyon, leading his small company up the ramp. “I’ve been there before.”

As Sadira entered the tower, she felt as though she were plunging into an enchanted well. An ambient green light suffused the air, lighting the dust on her skin like tiny gems sparkling in a thousand colors. Ahead, the corridor divided into three branches. From each puffed a hot breeze thick with the smell of mildew and rot, masked by the overly-sweet aroma of burning incense.

Faenaeyon ushered them into the right-hand corridor and started up the steep, spiraling slope. The hallway was lined by the scale shaped windows she had seen from outside. By peering out the openings, she could see that they were rapidly climbing to the top of the tower. Whenever they circled around to the north side, the view of the plaza below was replaced by the sheer crags of the rocky bluff. Once in a while, they passed one of the cliffside palaces, where a pair of stern-faced sentries stood guard over the causeway connecting their master’s home to the tower. Sometimes, it seemed to Sadira that she heard feet walking down the corridor toward them, but only once did they meet anyone-an old woman carrying an empty fruit basket to market.

When she felt reasonably certain they would not be overheard, Sadira asked, “Faenaeyon, what are we going to do once we reach the top of the tower?”

“There’ll be a pair of royal guards,” the elf answered. “I’ll kill them, and we’ll cross to the wall.”

Sadira peered out a window. It was fifty feet to the ground, and the sorceress could not imagine the height of the outside wall would be any less. “Then what?”

“You’ll cast the spell you used to bring the tribe across the canyon,” the chief answered. “We’ll be gone before the sentries notice us.”

Sadira stopped walking. “No,” she said. “To use that spell, I’d have to defile. I won’t do that again.”

“You must,” Faenaeyon said, continuing up the ramp. “It’s the best way.”

“Then you should have asked me before bringing us here,” Sadira said.

Faenaeyon whirled on her. “I don’t need to ask!” he snapped. “I am chief, and you’ll do as I say.” He glared at her for a moment, then continued up the corridor with no further discussion.

Rhayn slipped a hand under Sadira’s arm and dragged her after the chief. Soon, the passage leveled off and curved toward the north side.

“Leave the guards to me,” Faenaeyon whispered. “Magnus, you and Huyar keep the gate open. Rhayn, watch over Sadira!”

A few moments later, the corridor broadened into a square foyer. To one side, a bone portcullis hung over a short passage leading to the causeway. Just behind this gate, a narrow hall opened off the main corridor and turned sharply to the right, apparently opening into a small chamber that could not be seen from the main passage. A short stretch of the causeway itself was barely visible, suspended over the empty space between the tower and the city wall.

As Sadira’s father had predicted, a pair of guards stood at the portcullis. They were both full humans, wearing purple saramis, with white tabards bearing the insignia of a cilops over the top. In their hands, they held short spears and shields, both made of blue agafari wood.

The guards crossed their spears in front of the causeway. “What are you doing here?” asked one.

Faenaeyon continued to walk toward them at a leisurely pace, holding his hands well away from his dagger sheath. The guards took the precaution of leveling their spearpoints at him, though they did not seem alarmed by his innocuous approach.

“You can’t come any farther,” said the first guard.

The chief stopped in front of the two men and allowed them to press the tips of their spears to his chest.

“Go on and get out of-”

Faenaeyon sprang into action, thrusting his hands up between the two spears and spreading them apart. Before the guards could cry out, he grabbed them both by the backs of their necks. One after the other, he pulled their heads down and smashed their faces into his knees. The Nibenese cried out and dropped their spears, then the elf pushed them over to a wall and beat their heads against the stones until they fell unconscious.

“As I promise, a simple matter,” he said, motioning the others forward.

Magnus and Huyar went into the passages and picked up the spears of the unconscious guards. Before Rhayn and Sadira stepped beneath the portcullis, however, a Nibenese templar rushed out of the side corridor. She took one look at the unconscious guards, then turned toward the causeway, already opening her mouth to call for the king’s magic.

Sadira grabbed the woman’s hair and jerked her head back, smashing the edge of her other hand into the templar’s throat. The Nibenese gurgled in pain, then Rhayn ended her life by plunging a bone dagger into her heart.

“Not as simple as you thought,” Sadira said, shaking her head at her father.

“Things have not turned out so badly,” Faenaeyon said, leading the way across the causeway.

By the time the small company stepped off the bridge, the sentries scattered along the butte were rushing toward them. Faenaeyon took the spear from Magnus’s hand and sent it sailing into the chest of the nearest guard, while Huyar threw his at the one approaching from the opposite direction. Seeing that the elves now had nothing but daggers, the next men in line drew obsidian short swords and rushed forward.

“Cast your spell,” ordered Faenaeyon.

“I’ll cast a spell,” Sadira said, taking a small disk of wood from her satchel.

Faenaeyon ignored her and pulled the dagger he had taken earlier from Huyar. As the chief prepared to meet the first sentry, Rhayn gave her own dagger to Huyar, then took a shard of kank shell from her satchel and began preparations for her own spell.

Sadira went to the wall and peered over the edge. She found herself looking out over endless acres of silver sandgrass, mottled with boulder-sized clumps of rock-holly. In the distance, laboring under the lash of a single half-giant overseer, a dozen slaves were using buckets to irrigate the king’s field.

As the sorceress summoned the energy for her spell, the first of the sentries arrived and attacked. Faenaeyon killed his almost effortlessly, dodging a clumsy thrust, then twisting the sword from the guard’s hand and slicing the man open with his own blade. Huyar had more trouble, dropping his dagger when he was slashed across the forearm, and Magnus finally had to intervene by knocking the sentry from the cliff.

Sadira held her disk over the edge of the wall and uttered her incantation. The wooden circle rose from her hand and hovered in midair, then slowly began to expand.

“What’s that?” demanded Faenaeyon.

“It’s how we’ll get off the wall,” Sadira explained.

A bowstring hummed and an arrow ticked into Magnus’s thick hide. The windsinger cried out in pain, but positioned himself where he would serve as shield for the others.

“Cast the other spell,” Faenaeyon ordered.

“I told you I wouldn’t,” Sadira said, using one hand to keep her disk from drifting away as it continued to expand. “This is more dangerous, but it’ll have to do.”

On the side that Magnus was not protecting, a sentry knelt and fired an arrow at the group. The shaft clattered off the stones near Sadira’s head, and the sorceress could see that several more guards were coming up to join the attacker.

Rhayn chose that moment to cast her spell, tossing her kank shell into the air. The shard disappeared and was replaced by a full carapace. Huyar immediately grabbed it and used it to shield the group. To both sides of them, sentries cursed, then put their bows aside and rushed foward to attack hand-to-hand.

“I think it’s large enough,” Sadira said, motioning Faenaeyon onto the disk. It was now the size of a large table. “Get on.”

The chief glowered, but did as ordered. Rhayn and Sadira followed next, then Huyar discarded the kank shell and joined them. Magnus came last, again positioning, his arrow-flecked bulk between the others and the attacking sentries. He shoved the disk away from the wall, then raised his voice in song. Within moments, a powerful wind rose, carrying the company over the king’s lush fields and out into the wastes of the Athasian desert.