UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel Page 5

  Seren pressed a hand to her chest, wishing, wishing, wishing. “A force. Yes. Exactly that.”

  She’d never been so jealous in all her life. She wanted so badly to be as confident as Ona and Lucca were, to have the power Ona displayed with such ease.

  They passed under the arch of the back gate and headed toward the Kyros Walls. Seren’s ears buzzed with the sound of Ona’s voice and the power that had flamed through her words.

  “Will we get to see the other mercenary chant, Pearl of the Desert?” Meekra asked as they passed through a clutch of nobles dressed in black, yellow, and red.

  Qadira raised a palm to Seren, her kaftan’s wide sleeves fluttering like a nightwinger. Najwa grinned as she bowed, the three high-caste bells on her black sash catching the sunlight. Seren gave the group a nod, her thoughts pushing her toward her tent, toward an empty place to think.

  What would Lucca look like chanting and fighting like Ona? Inside the main tent, Seren removed her outer kaftan, suddenly too hot. Cansu, Erol, and Hossam stayed by the main tent’s entrance, giving Seren and Meekra some space and privacy.

  The door to Seren and Meric’s personal chamber hung still and dead between the rotating guards on duty. The ka’ud wood smoked lightly, the blue puffs ghosting through the tent’s seams. Seren inhaled. Under the heavy, nectar-like scent of the wood, the odor of death stirred.

  He had to be buried. Now.

  Meekra took Seren’s kaftan and opened the chamber’s thick, inner flap. Seren flexed her hands which were lightly calloused from archery, but smooth and lacking the muscle in Meekra’s. Meekra, with her strong hands, could help her dig, but then Meekra would be that much more involved in this dangerous scheme. She studied her friend’s face, the small scar beside her chin. Meekra had told Seren about that scar, about her younger sister accidentally kicking her during one of their friendly wrestling matches when they were little. Their family was intact and Seren wouldn’t do anything to threaten that. Seren couldn’t ask Meekra to help bury Meric. She had to keep her safe. Well, safe as possible.

  She could bury him herself. Maybe.

  Following Meekra—neither looked toward Meric’s body on the bed—through the room and into the side chamber, Seren wondered how long it would take to dig an almost six foot long hole, at least two feet deep. She honestly didn’t know. What if Adem came to the door and Meekra had to cover for her? If Adem pushed his way in and saw everything, Meekra’s deceit would mean death.

  While Meekra prepared a bowl of clean water, Seren, stomach in knots, went back to the door and peered through the flaps at her guards. The men talked quietly with the others stationed at the main tent’s door. The sun cut through the pinned flaps and illuminated one side of Cansu’s, Erol’s, and Hossam’s faces, leaving the other side dark. If she trusted them with her secret, they’d help her with this terrible task. They probably already knew Meric was dead. Cansu had seen him right before Barir confirmed it.

  Erol muttered a word to Cansu and Cansu’s face broke into a boyish grin. The old kyros—Meric’s father and Seren’s father’s closest friend—had chosen him because he noticed details most did not. The way one warrior frowned when a certain kaptan entered the room. How a foreign emissary failed to bow properly or how many times the ore masters visited the training fields to watch their steel used. He never drew conclusions, but he grabbed all the elements so she could. But his face was as easy to read as a scroll written yesterday. He’d never keep a secret with that face. And it wasn’t as if she could trust Hossam and Erol with this and not expect Cansu to find out.

  No, her guards were good men, but they weren’t the people she needed right now. If they knew, fine. But she wouldn’t confirm their suspicions. That way, if anyone questioned them, they’d be safe. They wouldn’t be held accountable for what she was doing.

  What would Father have done?

  Not wanting to lean on loyalty and endanger those closest, he’d have picked out two strong workers and paid them to keep quiet. Workers or soldiers with nerves of steel and no allegiance to Adem or any of the kaptans or ore masters. No secret agendas like so many warriors had.

  And then it came to her.

  There were two people in Akhayma with no allegiances past silver—which she could provide. Two people with nerves of steel. Yes, if she paid them enough and convinced them of the secret’s necessity, they might just be the two people she desperately needed.

  “Meekra?”

  “Yes, my lady?” Meekra’s head poked out of the side chamber’s door flap.

  “I’ll take care of myself. Will you please tell the mercenaries to meet me at their tent at sunset tonight, after the day’s training is complete. I need to see them before tomorrow.”

  Because tomorrow she’d have even more weighing on her. Tonight, she had to face the death sitting in her very chambers.

  ONA

  “No, no. Not like that. What did you chant? Like the power of my grandmother’s little finger?” Ona grabbed Haris's shoulder and stopped him hacking at the wooden target. “Try this. Let me see if I can translate right…um…” Pushing the sleek man away—he reminded her of a cat—she faced the target herself and pulled out her sword and flint.

  She struck it and watched the spark leap and fly. “Wake iron, wake!”

  Her sword grew lighter, moved easily through the air as she sliced across the target’s battered wood. As she drew the weapon back, she struck the flint again. She felt the sparks in her blood, fire singeing veins.

  “Strike like a storm, fast and faster.

  Like the water, unrelenting.

  Iron in the hand. Iron in the heart.

  A blade unstoppable!”

  She leaped into the air, sword in both hands, and slashed down on the target’s peak, a blow that would’ve blasted through any fighter’s skull.

  Haris hurried to the opposite side of the target, his eyes like slits and his mouth smiling cruelly. “Wake iron, wake!”

  His flint scraped his yatagan and fire jumped from the contact. Slipping the flint in his sash, he shouted in accented trade tongue,

  “Be the instrument of my passion,

  My drive, my life.

  I am a storm they don’t see coming.

  I am the heat inside a fatal wound.

  Wake iron, wake!”

  Ona sheathed her own sword, her cheeks hurting from smiling. “You basically just called yourself an infection, but all right. It worked.” She stomped her feet in praise. “Much better.”

  A couple of other warriors came over, patted Haris on the back, began talking in their own desert tongue.

  Across from a set of archery targets, Lucca’s unit lined up, nearer to the stables. The sun bleached the stable roof, a lone tree’s waxy leaves, and the warriors’ dark heads. Holding a bow, Lucca sat on his gray-dappled horse in front of the fighters, several arrows tucked between his fingers. His other hand gripped the flint and struck it against the arrowhead. Like he’d stolen and thrown a piece of the powerful sun, a spark jumped from the flint.

  “Wake iron, wake!

  My body spins with the swiftness of the falcon.”

  He dropped his flint into his pocket, a movement smooth from loads and loads of practice, and let an arrow fly. It thunked into the center of the first target as his mount jolted toward the second target.

  “I dive and my enemy sees my talon, my sword, flashing!”

  His chant, one of Ona’s favorites, boomed across the field and echoed along the training area’s walls. He fired another arrow and hit the second target. And one more arrow, nearly splitting the first.

  “My iron consumes his soul!” he shouted.

  Lucca drove his horse past the third target, then pushed the animal back in a half turn. He loosed three arrows and each of them found the middle of the last target. His unit erupted in cheers as the first of them stepped forward, black hair waving in the wind.

  The warrior repeated what Lucca had done, but at the end instead of turning his o
wn mount around, he arched his back and shot upside down, hitting the target one time more than Lucca. Lucca shouted in smiling surprise and ran to the man, already asking how, his hands lifted in question.

  Adem’s raspy voice droned through a speaking cone. “Attention.”

  Ona whipped around to see the old man on the rise where Seren had stood earlier. The soldiers scrambled into lines and faced their general. Adem kept looking over his shoulder like Seren might return, like he was a boy afraid of getting in trouble.

  Ona glanced at Lucca. He shrugged. So he didn’t know what this was about either. Strange that Adem would interrupt them right after training had started.

  Adem spoke too quickly and his voice echoed oddly through the cone. Ona couldn’t catch what he was saying. Something about scouts. Then one word rang clearly across the field.

  Saldirgan. Invader.

  Ona’s blood took the sparks from earlier and ran with the feeling. She could leap over a mountain, slay one thousand without sweating a drop, push the sun back to savor the day.

  They were coming. The Invaders from the West, the warriors who had ruined her life, were coming to Akhayma. Her heart soared. She would finally get her revenge.

  She grabbed Haris's bony arm. “I can’t hear him well enough. What is he saying? When will they arrive? How long do we have to prepare?”

  Haris blinked. “Um, he said tomorrow, tomorrow evening. And the kaptans are to meet with him immediately at the weapons tent. Just there.” He pointed to a large, oblong shelter beside the stables. The kyros's flag, blue with black calligraphy, snapped over its peak.

  The crowd was already moving back into training with Lucca lost in the mass of men and women.

  “I’ll walk with you, if you like,” Haris said.

  Ona barely heard him. In her mind, her enemy stomped toward them, their weapons stained with her aunt’s blood, their hands—too pale, too cold—ready to rip someone else’s innocence away like they had Ona’s. Their shriek, pained and howling, echoed in her ears.

  Clouds like fists gathered around the afternoon sun, squeezed the orb’s pale light, then let it go in watery lines that made Ona squint. Movements smooth, Haris led her past the busy training field and toward the weapons tents. Everything had a sharp edge to it. The ends of Haris's black hair, the white stripes of the tent, the curve of her boot’s toe in the gritty earth.

  Inside the weapons tent’s dim light, Haris said goodbye and slipped out the door. The room was filled with men and a few women talking with one another, serious looks on serious faces. A man in front of Ona straightened his dark blue kaftan and adjusted the black sash at his waist. His yatagan hung from a shiny, silver chain.

  “Have you seen Lucca Hand of Ruination, the other mercenary?” Ona asked, trying to smooth her trade tongue.

  He inclined his head politely. Stars, he was pretty. War and want both sent that rush through Ona’s blood. The more, the better.

  “No, Kaptan Onaratta Paints with Blood,” he said. “I have not, but may I say I am particularly impressed by your abilities and those of your associate.”

  “Oh. Thank you. Kaptan…”

  “Rashiel Ozan.”

  “Thank you, Kaptan Rashiel Ozan. Will I see you at the evening meal?” He’d be great to question for military details and also great for some after dinner activities.

  “Yes,” Rashiel said. “I’ll look for you and perhaps we can talk more about your skills.”

  “I’d like that very much.” Ona angled herself toward him, wondering if he was as good at kissing as he was at good manners. “Maybe I could even show you a thing or two.”

  She could take over the world. Her enemies were coming and they would be destroyed. The world was new, and she was ready to celebrate it already.

  One side of his mouth quirked into a grin. “You are very young.”

  “I’m a kaptan.”

  “And so you are. I’ll see you at the evening meal then.” He smiled and lightning zipped down her spine.

  Lucca’s mouth was suddenly at her ear. “You’re flirting and death is riding at us.” He nodded politely at Rashiel as the man turned. Adem entered the tent from a side door.

  “This surprises you?” Ona said.

  “Not really.” The muscles around his jaw tensed and he stared ahead. “If the Invaders are coming, we should leave immediately.”

  Ona’s stomach twisted, but hope surged over the sick feeling and drowned it. “I want my chance at them.”

  Lucca’s eyes pressed shut for a beat. Then his shoulders straightened and he opened them, protectiveness practically shooting out of them like arrows. “What will happen if you do kill a bunch of Invaders? What then?”

  “Then I’ll live out my life as a mercenary, content in knowing the ones who murdered my aunt and made me become a killer are dead.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “It’s called vengeance, Lucca. Look it up in one of your books.”

  “If you looked it up, you’d find out vengeance has a pretty bitter aftertaste.”

  Ona felt like someone had tightened a horse’s girth around her middle. Why didn’t he understand?

  She grabbed Lucca’s sleeve and jerked him closer. “They ruined my world. They took my aunt’s life like it was their right to do it.” Her fingers shook. Heat seared the corners of her eyes. “I won’t let them get away with it. I want to shove them into the ground and drive my sword into their hearts. All their hearts. I want to—”

  Lucca put his hand over her shaking one and began plucking at her grip on his shirt. “All right. All right. But listen to this argument.”

  Adem was talking to a group of other kaptans and two of those ore masters, the men and women in the long, sweeping, black cloaks who ran the iron mine operations, Akhayma’s main source of wealth.

  “I don’t want to risk my life for someone else’s war,” Lucca said. His breath smelled like mint. “If someone attacks Silvania, I’m all in. But this?”

  “Someone else’s war?” Ona’s hand curled around the hilt of her sword. “It’s not someone else’s. It’s yours! It’s mine!”

  A few heads turned their way, but they didn’t speak Silvanian, so they couldn’t know what Lucca and Ona were arguing about.

  Lucca’s pinched mouth fell and his eyes went shiny. She knew he wasn’t going to argue anymore. Not today anyhow. She could almost see their friendship in his look. The rawness of the violence they’d committed together in the shadows under his lower lashes. The way no one else’s life mattered as much as one another’s during battles between the people who paid them hiding in an early wrinkle between his eyebrows. She knew he saw a lot in her eyes too. Her desperate hope flickered back at her, a gut-wrenching plea for him to understand her need to kill every Invader she could get her hands on.

  Her hope won out and the heat of her anger cooled. She wanted him to want this revenge too, to really want it, not go along with her because he loved her and their friendship. This could mean his life, and she didn’t want him to stay and fight if he didn’t truly feel it.

  “It’s…ours,” she said. “They hurt Silvania too. Not recently. But in the past. They ravaged my village and a dozen more past that. They tried to take yours too.” She wouldn’t mention his brother’s abduction. Not until it was really necessary. “Don’t act like that was a once in history occurrence. They could strike Silvania again if they take this territory. It would be even easier.”

  Twisting away, he raked hands through his hair. “I don’t know how we’d leave anyway. One does not break a deal with a kyros if one wishes to keep one’s head.” His voice went quiet. “So I guess we’re staying.”

  “We can do it, Lucca. We could lead our units against the Invaders.” She could almost feel her sword driving into an Invader’s throat.

  “I seriously do not like that look in your eye.” Lucca moved to get closer to Adem and his cohorts.

  “You’re not even looking at me,” Ona said to his broad ba
ck.

  “Oh I can see it. I can see it better than you.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Just…keep your head, Ona. That’s all I ask. This isn’t a mercenary fight, a battle for silver or respect. This will be true war. Mind your tongue, keep your options open, and stay close to me.”

  “You’re awfully bossy, you know,” she said.

  “Just now noticing that?”

  “Guess when we don’t have the rest of the crew around, there’s no buffer,” she said as Adem’s associates stepped back and let the older man take control of the room.

  Meekra appeared at Lucca’s side, dipping a small bow. She looked very out of place in here. “Pearl of the Desert requests you two receive her at your guest tent at sundown.”

  Lucca’s mouth popped open. He shut it firmly and swallowed. “Of course.” He lowered his chin and watched Meekra leave.

  “What is that about?” Ona asked. She took Lucca’s dimpled chin in her fingers and turned his head toward her face. “Hey. Pearl of the Desert isn’t going to suddenly show up here so you can stop staring at the door.”

  “What?” He looked so shocked that she’d noticed his painfully obvious longing. “No.”

  “Hm.”

  Adem clapped once to gain everyone’s attention. “A middle-sized unit, some 8,000 fighters will pass our borders by tomorrow afternoon. We ride to Kenar to meet them, to surprise them tomorrow night.” He detailed a plan.

  “If I may, sir,” a warrior said, “where is our kyros?”

  Adem stilled. “Unfortunately, our kyros is unwell.”

  “Shouldn’t Pearl of the Desert be here? Her father taught her well.” A few of the other fighters murmured assent.

  Adem’s voice was calm. Too calm. “I assure you, I know Kyros Meric’s will in military matters and have hopes that his condition will improve when we crush the Invaders before they have time to take a full breath of our air!”

  The warriors around Ona and Lucca raised their fists and shouted as one. A smile cracked Ona’s dry lips as Lucca sighed resignedly and nodded. They were staying. And Ona was finally going to get the revenge she’d always wanted.