​​​​31 The Sands of Mourn

THE LANDSCAPE SOUTH of Shamar was a combination of cracked earth, wind-formed mesas, and sculpted canyons through which the wind howled. Further south, the Moral Desert became Gomorrah with endless waves of golden dunes.

‘Are you certain you wish to come?’ Wither had asked the young woman a mile beyond Shamar’s walls. ‘Considering where I’m going, you might be better off staying. Whatever took everyone else, I don’t think it will return. There is a lot of food and water in the city. If I am able, I will come back later and take you to Pethram.’

Seated high on her desert mount, she had looked down at him without reply. Nor had she said two words since. He wondered sometimes if he wasn’t better off. Thinking back on it, Wither didn’t believe in coincidences. The dog had died the second she’d opened her eyes, hadn’t it? This woman had dangerous secrets, but don’t we all, he thought wryly.

There was sporadic growth of shrub-like cacti with cylindrical stems and segmented joints. Lizards lay immobile on exposed rock soaking up the morning sun. A teasing hint of life.

They camped each night within shallow caves or beneath flat overhangs, a small fire within a sandy pit to hide its light. After he’d fed the hobbled camels, Wither cooked coffee over the fire, followed by boiled meat and rice. Coffee, a drink unknown north of Ancyra, and worth more than gold south of the Gulley. He had not expected such a gift. It certainly made the journey palatable. Striga had done well.

He tried to conserve their water, not knowing where this oasis would be. If it was there at all. He would’ve preferred to travel in the dark when cooler, but at night, uneven and rocky terrain, ground collapsing beneath the slightest weight, not to mention snakes and spiders, made it too treacherous.

The tenth morning passed and midday came and went with no sound to distract him, nothing but wind. The sky was a clear blue without a wisp of cloud, and nowhere to hide from the sun, no option but to go on until they reached shade and water.

They had wrapped rags about their heads like turbans, hid their hands and feet as best they could. His lips were cracked and he tasted grit in his mouth. It filled his ears and nose. He wondered if they would end up travelling this wasteland for weeks, although, he doubted they would last weeks. He regretted not forcing her to remain behind. Why had this Fetch creature spared her in the first place? Perhaps it was why she had slept, to avoid its notice. If so, his companion was not just clever but potentially dangerous, and Wither began to feel helpless, and vulnerable.

The fresh camel meat they’d boiled each evening had run out. They had biscuits and some dried meat, but it was salty and the biscuits were dry. The coffee had begun to run out too, and the rice was gone. Worst of all, the water was getting low, although with lighter packs, the camels seemed happier. At one point, they halted to drink a mouthful each. Mesas surrounded them on three sides, and he saw strange rocks, which appeared to have crept across the wide valley, leaving long tracks. Rocks moving of their own will wasn’t something he wanted to understand.

He felt a creeping numbness in his legs. He massaged them and adjusted the last bladder and pack. Through the rising shimmer from the desert floor, he spotted something in the distance. The thought of shade spurred them towards it.

Over the next hour they came closer, and he spurred his camel to a quicker pace when he recognised not rocks but buildings. A city.

Exhausted and close to collapse, they reached its walls. Outside them was a scattering of stunted mesquite trees and blessed shade. Dismounting near the trees, Wither abandoned his camel, and entered beneath a wide curved sandstone arch. Carved into its surface were beasts he didn’t know. Many bore the heads of humans though with faces no mother could love.

As he stumbled into the city, he collapsed to his knees in grief. Minutes later, the woman stepped up beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He winced at the touch.

Gaping, hollow ruins remained. No one had lived there for a long time. The desert had begun claiming it back for beyond the city rose undulating rows of dunes. The sands had shifted with the wind and had consumed most of the city. Doors and windows half-filled as the desert swallowed every house, every vestige of civilisation. Perhaps this was how the world ended. Smothered in sand.

Finding a house close by with just a scattering of sand on the floors, they entered its shade. Wither sank against a shattered pockmarked wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a hoarse voice. ‘I brought you all this way to die.’

The woman sat opposite with her legs crossed. For a wonder, she spoke. ‘This city died over one hundred and twenty years ago.’ She looked around as though seeing more than walls. ‘It was named, Mourn. Few in Shamar speak of it. It is bad luck.’

‘You have a nice voice,’ said Wither with a smile. ‘You should use it. I could have done with some conversation. I thought you a mute.’

She smiled in return. ‘My name is, Myral Azarm. I wasn’t sure about you and ... I needed the quiet. It was a feeling, but I knew I should follow you. I am glad I did because I am sure now.’

‘Why?’

‘The grief you’ve shown, the honesty of it, says much about you. Grief is always honest. It is the purest form of pain.’

Wither studied her a long moment, not certain how to respond. She had deep thoughts, almost religious, something else he wouldn’t have guessed. ‘Your face ...’ he said after a time. ‘I feel as though I know you.’

Myral glanced away, examining the walls. ‘Perhaps you met my mother. Her name ... well, she now calls herself, Scatter.’

Wither grunted. Well, what did it matter if she was Scatter’s daughter? Though her skin was not as dark as her mother’s, the resemblance was there. What were the chances? Was this some sort of fated meeting? He felt exposed from a lack of control. He got shakily to his feet. ‘We should search the city for sign of an oasis. It must be here.’ Why would she have lied? To what end?

‘You knew my mother, but you did not like her.’

Wither took another mouthful of water from the last of the bladders. He handed it to her. ‘That’s the last until tomorrow. If we don’t find the oasis ...’ He didn’t bother saying what they both knew. There wasn’t enough for both to reach Shamar alive. He turned towards the gaping doorway, the brightness outside blinding.

‘There is no oasis here.’

He whirled, stumbling a little. ‘What did you say?’

‘There used to be, centuries ago. It is why they built this city. The oasis lay at its heart, but it is just sand now. Is that why you came all this way, for water? There was plenty of water in Shamar. The oasis near there still lives.’

Wither stalked towards her, anger building despite his weakened state. ‘And you didn’t think to mention this? You could’ve saved me a long trek.’

‘You never told me why you were crossing the desert. You never said anything.’

‘You never asked,’ he tried to shout, throat burning. ‘Besides, didn’t you think water might be a concern?’

She shrugged.

‘Why did you follow me?’

She seemed surprised at the question, but to her credit didn’t flinch. He was angry enough to murder. ‘You didn’t come here looking for an oasis. You came to seek help. We seek the same thing, you and I.’

Her words gave him pause. ‘How ... what do you know? Who are you?’ This time he didn’t mean if she was Scatter’s daughter.

‘You studied the magic of Rasnal Nalrost. My mother insisted I learn too, though I was unable to. I knew nothing of power ... until much later. The one lesson I’ve learned is magic is dangerous. It always leads to problems. Solutions are best found without it. Although, I’ve found that is not always possible.’

‘You are Aidari.’

She shook her head. ‘I was never inducted like you. Like I said, I failed to learn under my mother’s tutelage.’

‘You killed the dog, didn’t you? Yet you say you have no magic?’

‘I never said that.’

‘You haven’t said much at all from what I can tell.’

‘The person you seek is here, in Mourn. You must hurry. If you linger, death will find you or perhaps something worse.’ She gave him an odd look, which unnerved him. If he’d felt malice from the Torment, he felt a knowing from her. He didn’t like it. Was someone trying to manipulate him? Striga, Myral, or was it Scatter? Could it be all three, or someone else who pulled their strings? A throbbing pain rose in the back of his skull.

Other thoughts raced through his head. Striga hadn’t lied about the oasis. She’d been off a few centuries, and if she was immortal as she claimed, it was possible she hadn’t known. She wasn’t of this world, being a servant of the Grim. What have I walked into here?

He stepped outside, squinting in the sunlight. Raising an arm to shade his eyes, he stumbled off in search of the oasis. He had no idea where to begin. Was this the right place? How had the person he was supposed to find survived without water? Perhaps they were dead a hundred years. Yes, that would make a fine joke.

He turned to discover Myral following and paused to let her catch up. She was the only person he had right now.

As they reached the centre, they found the old oasis. A low mud-brick wall, mostly swallowed by sand surrounded what had once been a large body of water. Stunted trunks rose from the cracked dried mud where trees had stood. The sand had begun to bury it all.

Clouds - where minutes before had been clear sky - obscured the sun. Perhaps it was too much to wish for, but he began to hope for rain.

Myral shouted a warning, as something rose from the oasis. It looked as though it climbed up out of water where there was none. Emaciated and clearly undead, it was a viral. In its hand was a black shimmering spear, and Wither saw screaming faces within it. The viral pointed the spear at them, and an apparition emerged from its tip. Another rose behind it and another. Dozens became hundreds, all armed with ghostly spears and swords. The reflections rushed at them.

Wither swore as he turned and ran. He managed to grab Myral’s wrist and drag her with him. The spirits, or whatever they were, moved fast. To stay ahead, Wither and Myral had to run at full pelt despite unsteady legs. They ran back towards the city entrance. There was nowhere else to run to. He was gambling that beyond it they’d be safe. He based it on nothing but a gut feeling. If he was wrong, he knew they didn’t have long to live.