Tobin had to give the shield bearers protecting the shamans credit. Despite the tangled mess below, their guards never faltered. In the group closest to Tobin, an opening appeared as the shield and rider fell to the ground. Ral slipped quickly away from the group as Tobin released his shot and hit a shaman just under the left armpit. The shaman folded over his mount.
A similar opening appeared soon after and this time Tobin struck his target through the neck. Those around the shaman shouted out at the dead man wavering in the saddle.
Tobin smiled—two arrows and two shamans. The commotion that resulted worked further against the desert riders as they sought an enemy they could not find.
Tobin chanced another shot. The arrow zipped through a small crevasse. A shaman wailed, an arrow protruding from his back. Warriors looked in Tobin’s direction, assessing the trajectory of his shots. He was in no situation to confront anyone, so he set off, unwilling to engage the Orange Desert Clan alone.
* * *
Skirting the valley below, Tobin traversed the desolate mounds of sand that led to the coast. Following the contours of those bleak hills, the uneven land provided a dangerous ground for the frantic pace he maintained. As he weaved along, he did his best to leave false trails where possible, hoping to distract anyone who might follow. He stole the occasional glance down to the valley floor, peering through a cloud of dust kicked up by another group of riders.
So focused on what lay behind him and to the sides, he became careless to what was in front, nearly falling victim to an arrow from his own clan. Walor spotted him with longbow drawn. Tobin came to a tense halt. Walor shifted his neck to the side with a loud crack and a smile crawled across his face. He swung his bow down and fired it toward the next group of riders. Tobin relaxed and grinned back.
Fifty other archers joined Walor, raining flight after flight of arrows down on each group of desert warriors that made their way up the dusty trail. An equal number of archers fired on the hill just opposite them, where the valley was at its most narrow. With the desert riders coming in range in such small groups, the land below changed from a drab orange to a bright red, stained with the blood of those who would never reach the shore.
“Looks like its working. Not sure what’s going on along the beach though. How long before the last of them make it to us?” asked Walor as he pulled another arrow loose from his quiver.
“Soon. I’d guess another six or seven hundred left.” said Tobin.
“Shamans?”
“I think four made it down in the first wave. I shot three. So, that leaves another three left unless Ral and Ufer got anymore.”
“Three by yourself? Ral and Ufer will have to get at least one a piece or they’ll never forgive you for taking all the fun.”
Tobin shrugged. “They gave me a shot on two of them. They can have credit for those. It makes no difference to me.” He glanced over and noticed many of the other Kifzo were near the end of their quivers. Tobin grabbed three out of his own before passing the rest down to Walor. “Here. Take what you need and pass these along. We’ve only got enough for a few volleys.” Walor grabbed two arrows for himself, setting each of their blue dyed tips down point first in the loose sand at his feet before tossing the quiver down to the next warrior.
Tobin heard the advance of beating hooves long before he saw the swarm of desert warriors round the bend. Animal and warrior had reorganized, forming a solid sheet of shadow that cascaded down the weathered trail, leaving behind a whirlwind of austere powder in their wake. “No word from the beach, you said?” asked Tobin.
“None,” said Walor in a grim tone.
Tobin grunted in response. Walor gave a nod as if reading his thoughts.
The Kifzo drew back bowstrings as the desert warriors howled over even the thunderous hooves of their mounts. Riders crossed an imaginary line in the ground and a hail of arrows filled Tobin’s intervening space. Bodies tumbled from their saddles, falling left and right, blue shafts piercing orange and black armor. Two successive flights followed the first.
I’m out.
Tobin dropped his bow and with quivers empty, other Kifzo did the same. The Kifzo shouted war cries down to the riders who now broke off and climbed the smaller hills in an attempt to reach their position. Shamans unleashed three quick bursts of sorcery, hitting the slopes in a blast of heat. The Kifzo scattered to avoid becoming easy targets. Out of habit, Tobin reached for his throwing axes but his belt loops were empty. Cursing, he remembered where he had left them and with a sigh pulled free his sword instead.
Within moments, ringing steel, blood curdling screams, and sliding rock joined the cacophony of sounds. Another flash of sorcery struck the hillside less than twenty feet from where Tobin stood, killing a half dozen men—Kifzo and desert warriors alike. The concussive jolt knocked him from his feet and in his fall, he bruised his head on half-buried rock. He rolled to his knees amidst blurred vision.
Outnumbered, without mounts, and unable to match their sorcery. Curse you Father, for not allowing us the support of even a handful of shaman.
He lifted his clouded gaze and his heart sank. Warriors galloped down from the beachfront, wheeling their weapons in the air.
Dying in battle. Perhaps Father will find some pride in me for that.
But as his eyes came into focus, Tobin saw that these warriors were not of the Desert Clan. Their armor shone dull blue and murky gray, rather than the orange and black now swarming the hills like ants on an overturned mound. A flash of sorcery reached that approaching group of Kifzo only to dissipate before impact. Tobin grinned. Though he could not see his face among the throng of Kifzo, he knew that Nachun had survived.
Desert riders who had yet to scale the heaps of sand before them, wheeled in an attempt to reform lines to face the oncoming charge. Their efforts were frantic and futile as the Kifzo smashed into them in a blood-frenzied rage.
Still on one knee, a war cry drew his attention away from the excitement and Tobin half-rolled, half-dove in time to avoid an arrow flitting across the air toward him. The rider threw down the short bow he held, and replaced it with a scimitar, as he galloped toward Tobin, high in the saddle.
Overconfident fool.
Crouching, he unsheathed the dagger at his thigh. He flipped the dagger over, catching the blade with his fingers, and whipped it forward. Sinking hilt deep into the horse’s unprotected chest, the mount buckled, throwing the rider. The clansmen’s scimitar skidded across the sand as he crashed to the ground. Tobin was on him in a few short steps, sword cutting through boiled leather and sliding between ribs. The desert warrior gasped. Tobin twisted his wrist and wrenched the sword free. He watched the man’s life drain away and felt nothing.
Expecting another attacker, he spun about, but was surprised, disappointed, to see the battle ending. Though a few small pockets of fighting remained, many desert warriors were being rounded up, and in some cases, dragged to a common area where they could be watched. Somehow in the moments it took him to finish the rider, the Kifzo had overwhelmed the Desert Clan. Many threw their weapons to the ground rather than face death.
What could have caused such a sudden change?
Smoldering figures caught Tobin’s eye as he worked his way down the incline. Burned to a shriveled husk, the bodies leaked grayish smoke into the air. Many of those charred figures held the remnants of what appeared to be shields at their side.
Protectors of the shamans.
He snorted.
Effective against arrows but useless against other shamans. Useless against Nachun that is. To kill so many by himself!
He shook his head in disbelief.
Tobin looked up at the sound of scraping sand to see Nachun dragging a rattling corpse, the bones strapped to its person no longer a pale white, but black as tar. Nachun dumped the body on top of two others in similar condition. Ashes fluttered up, strengthening the already pungent smell of burnt flesh that hung in the air. “You’ve done well today.”
The shaman turned, his face at first a scowl, until recognition reached his mind and a friendly smile formed in its place. “Yes,” he said gesturing to the pile of death he had created. “I heard from Ufer you had a hand in taking out the others,”
“So he made it out then? And Ral? They deserve credit.”
“Ral died according to Ufer.”
His loss will be felt.
He was about to say as much when a deep voice sounded from behind.
“
Brother
, I see you decided to join us.” Tobin turned round and saw Kaz. Sweat and blood covered the man, armor torn and gouged. He looked at the graze on Tobin’s arm and chuckled. “It looks like you injured yourself. Let us hope it heals better than your ankle.” He paused, coming to a halt. “Lucky for us and for
you
,” Kaz said, “that Nachun was here to finish the task I gave you.”
Nachun cleared his throat. “Tobin, Ral, and Ufer killed many of them. I would think you pleased at their work.”
Kaz glared at Nachun through narrowed eyes and then turned to meet Tobin’s. “And you would be wrong. Their task was to kill them all, and Tobin was given the lead. The failure is his to bear. And a man like Ral is not easily replaced. Father will be displeased to hear of his death.”
And what would it take to please Father? You seem to be the only one with that answer.
“I take it by your silence you have nothing to say,
Brother
? Good. You are in charge of counting our dead. I want to know every man who gave his life today. As will Father.”
“As you say,” said Tobin.
Kaz turned, barking more orders as he strode through the masses. Tobin watched him for a moment and then started to walk away. Nachun called out to him with a reassuring smile, “You did do well, and we will celebrate our victory tonight, together.”
Tobin shook his head as he eyed Kaz. “I will not be part of any celebration tonight. I promise you that.”
* * *
He swayed in the saddle of his agitated mount. The animal plodded along, impatient with the slow pace Tobin kept. He was dressed in the same leather armor he had worn since arriving some weeks ago, gray and blue in color, matching the stone that covered the islands of his birth. Daggers were at his thigh and boots, throwing axes once again looped at his sides, sword strapped to his back. A longbow and quiver rested across the back of his mount, atop a small pack. The pack only further annoyed his horse and it snorted in frustration at him. Twice Tobin took out his anger on the animal, each time just after a nip at his leg or hand. Yet, the beast persisted.
Even he shows me no respect.
Within hours after the battle at Munai, the march to Nubinya began. If one was to ride up on the long train shuffling its way across the lifeless landscape, Tobin was sure that person would be astonished. Five hundred surviving Kifzo, remarkable numbers when considering the odds leading into the confrontation, led approximately twelve hundred desert clansmen, tied and bound to each other.
For the most part, submission of so many came easily. Kaz personally eliminated any man who showed even the faintest hint of defiance toward his command. As a result, most others quickly fell in line. But that did not surprise Tobin.
Fear is the backbone of Kaz’s rule.
The surprise came when Tobin observed the utter awe in a desert warrior groveling at Nachun’s feet, muttering about the unnatural things he had witnessed from him. Such a scene unsettled many of the Kifzo who had already felt uncomfortable around the shaman. Kaz’s sword plunging through the man’s back was all the warning necessary to make others think twice before doing the same.
You’ve become another threat to him, Nachun, and Kaz made everyone aware of his feelings toward you then.
Those unnatural things muttered by the now-dead warrior, and the other stories Tobin overheard regarding the battle along the coast, had even raised an alarm in his mind.
And he called me friend. Yet, am I? Can I trust him?
After all, the shaman was said to have performed things that none had ever seen before, nor even heard of, except in the ancient songs and tales of their ancestors, from a time before the crossing of the Great Divide. He wouldn’t have believed half of those mutterings had he not ridden down to the coast to look upon the twenty foot gorge in the shore. They said the ground opened up, swallowing man and horse alike.
Nachun later admitted the act nearly finished him, leaving him just enough strength to defeat the last three shamans.
But I saw him dragging the bodies of those shamans. Other than a little sweat and grime, he looked no different than before. And if I know Kaz, that is what he likes least of all. Too many uncertainties, too much misdirection. I wonder how Father will react to such news.
The horse bit his leg, interrupting his thoughts. He jerked the reins and whipped his mount’s head forward, cursing it for its stubbornness. Looking up, he gazed upon Nubinya, the heart of an otherwise dead land, the capital of the Orange Desert Clan.
The city had come into view some time ago. Maybe he was used to the grandeur of Juanoq, having watched his home grow in size and majesty with each passing year, but from outside Nubinya’s walls, the view disappointed him. Said to be the first city established by settlers after crossing the Great Divide, it was also the oldest known city in all of Hesh.
And it looks that way.
Black walls, made from the desert’s charcoaled stone, looked gnarled from centuries of windstorms. Piles of sand against the exterior walls, lessened their height to barely six feet, negating the need for siege ladders.
There is no excuse for such laziness. It’s as if they never fathomed anyone would assault them here.
Tobin looked around at the barren landscape.
But then who but my father would want any of this?
Following the columns through Nubinya’s narrow entrance, Tobin noticed crude towers to either side of the opening and at the corners of each wall. Their size and positioning appeared to offer little defense from would-be invaders.
Considering Father’s success, they were ineffective.