Vantra’s stomach dropped as she touched her mask, her protection against the stink Qira produced. She hated the stench and hoped the apparatus kept it from her sensitive essence. Fyrij streaked into her hood and buried his head in her neck, trembling, making sad and sick tweets. He did not like the smell, either. Perhaps he should have stayed in the cabin, as she asked, rather than peek above deck. Katta glanced at her and shook his head, his gaze lingering on the little one before he flicked his hand.
A coolness burst around the avian, something Vantra assumed would protect him from the dire heat the desert produced. How lucky, the ancient ghost cared enough to do so, for she did not have the knowledge to cast a similar spell.
Dockworkers raced away, hands over noses and mouths, while the nomads hunched over, shoving palms and lower arms against their lips and nostrils, attempting to blot out the smell.
The green cloud did not have a chance to spread far; a wind whipped up and blew it away, breaking it apart into small wisps which curled and vanished.
“Huh.” Qira smacked his thigh, sounding impressed. “That’s a nice spell.”
His last word coincided with the thud of projectiles into hazy red shields that zipped around them—Verryn’s work? The natives hurled hand-length darts, but without magic-enhanced tips, they could not penetrate. It seemed a silly attack to perform on ghosts; even if their targets, the pirates, could not form magic shields, they could employ Ether Touch and let the attacks sail through them. Too many objects whisking through an essence could cause disruption and, perhaps, discorporation, but the nomads did not have enough thrown weapons to achieve that.
When they realized their darts stuck in the shields, the Nevemere attempted to puncture the magic with their spears. The tips sank in and held fast; the beings could not yank them back out. Another gust raced up the dock; the guards planted their feet as the wind ruffled their hair, clothes, and blew them off-balance. It struck the shields and streaks of whitish air puffed out from the surface, as if someone had flung a powder puff at them. The fine bits dropped into the water and disappeared.
Ci Carrde raised a hand and shouted something commanding. A woman in a multi-layered, transparent orange dress decorated with gold embroidery that gleamed in the dull light, climbed onto the top of the wall that stood between the boats and the white buildings further up the hill. White and grey paint adorned her face, with a thick black line running from her hairline and down her nose, to end at the tip of her chin. She held up her hands and the atmosphere around the Loose Ducky darkened before a stronger gust blew into the shields. The natives fell, some tumbling off the dock and into the water, propelled by the wind.
Some popped to the surface and grabbed onto the posts, some swam towards the end of the wooden platform, but a few struggled, calling out, splashing and panicking.
They did not stay in the water long; soggy bodies flumped into a pile in front of their leader, whose eyes widened, and his words died, mid-shout. He lowered his arm as the woman screamed. The natives still on the dock hunkered down, but the smaller profile did not stop them from being shoved into the bay by the next wind.
They, too, ended up in wet piles in front of their leader, water streaming into puddles around them.
Verryn strode to land, the shield colliding with anyone left cowering on the dock and pushing them forward. Dough kept his step, wisps of fiery anger filling the air about him, and Qira and Katta followed, their demeanor stiffer, more bodyguard-like. They drew near Ci Carrde and the native’s eyes bulged, his lips firmed, his nostrils flared, as if he just realized he chose a cactus to squat down next to, and the pokey bits had pricked a very sensitive area. He must recognize he confronted someone more powerful than Dough, and that his planned hijacking was moot.
Kjaelle set her palm against her shoulder and gently pushed; she belatedly hurried down the ramp, after the twins and Lorgan, uneasy. While the woman casting wind spells had dimmed the atmosphere before her attack, what filtered into air now seemed deadlier than her magic, more akin to what they faced on the island.
“Mera and I will stay with them,” Tally whispered, glancing at the darkening sky. “The rest of you need to find Kenosera’s friends.”
“Do you have any idea where they are being held?” Kjaelle asked the native. He jerked his head down in an abrupt nod but did not speak.
“Good. When we get beyond the docks, you take the lead.”
The woman attempted another attack; the wind rebounded with greater force and blew her off the wall with a terrified shriek. Ci Carrde’s left eye twitched as Verryn stopped just before touching the first nomad sprawled on the wooden boards.
Grey clouds billowed in as the Finders, dockworkers, and random others scurried away from the confrontation, not eager to plant themselves in harm’s way. Despite the terrifying approach of darkness, the lot congregated near enough to hear what Verryn said. Vantra had no doubt, the gossip from the encounter would blaze through the town and into the countryside as fast as an unchecked fire, especially since the Nevemere attacked Dough’s special passengers. Once the ghosts learned they raised arms to a syimlin—
Katta glanced at them and jerked his chin towards the right; Lorgan slipped past the confrontation and headed for the large, cloud-filled road that led from the docks and curved around the wall. Kenosera sucked in a worried breath as they rounded the corner and realized over half the nomad force waited there, likely for some sign from Ci Carrde to attack.
Four men in the center of the street hoisted their spears, those behind them readying themselves for a fight.
“Fun,” Vesh muttered. “Whoever cast the spell to hide them from a magic search did a good job. I don’t think it was that woman with the painted face, though.”
“It’s probably the being working with darkness spells,” Kjaelle said.
“The vi-van is Sunega,” Kenosera said. “She is a powerful magisi from Black Temple. To have her so easily rebuffed is a blow to them, and the guards must believe that their assumed victory is now at the feet of defeat.”
“She has a punch of energy, but not enough training to use it effectively.” Lorgan tapped his fingers on his arms as he regarded the group. “I saw the same thing during my previous visits. Nevemere magic users have power, but tradition inhibits the full bloom of it.”
“What?” Kenosera asked in a low, offended growl.
“Your people neuter strong magic users. No doubt the dor-carous and vi-van of multiple generations have decided their political power lies in keeping those with greater magic ability stunted. In the far past, certain cultures on Talis did the same, but those who felt the repression fled to another place where they could receive training. That’s a little harder to do, with how unpopulated the desert is.”
“Vantra and I will accompany Kenosera,” Kjaelle said. “Lorgan, Vesh, keep them distracted.”
Kenosera did not wait for an affirmative; he took off across the cobblestones and towards the sidewalk that ran behind a white building. The Nevemere shouted; Vantra and Kjaelle streaked after him, the elfine muttering dark somethings about his stubborn rashness.
A strong sea breeze chased them past white buildings and startled residents who had yet to realize the nomads had attacked, breaking apart the dark clouds. It followed them as they wove around wagons and walkers and a scant few on horses, making for the top of the hill. The pinnacle had a grand view of the town, which lay under a thin layer of mist. Houses and businesses sprawled between gentle hills to the right, growing taller and more dilapidated the further from the docks they stood. A humongous wall and gate stood to the left, beyond which several tents with brightly striped tops stood, small pennants lining the roofs and fluttering in the breeze.
Small groups of beings had stopped, gaping and staring towards the docks. Vantra glanced back and gasped. The darkest grey clouds filled the space, and green lightning streaked to the ground from them.
Kenosera pointed to the gate, huffing. “They will be outside, beyond the Voristi tents and to the south. There is a small hollow there, and when Nevemere visit, they stay there. They believe Merdia will contaminate them if they remain too long within the walls.”
“We need a faster mode of transportation to get there,” Kjaelle said.
“There’s a stable near the gate. I know the owner, Gelleden. He’s a ghost, and he knows Dough well.” Kenosera waved at them to follow and headed down the hill, jostling any who unfortunately got in his way. Vantra apologized for his behavior, and Kjaelle snapped at the more forceful of the irritated.
The elfine eventually thumped the Passion badge on her cloak, bringing enough attention to it that the angry continued to grumble, but let them be.
Kenosera halted and waited for them at the edge of a fenced, open-front, rectangular building with horses and native beasts standing in large stalls. Six beings dressed in a similar matter to the spear wielders lined the paved walkway to a squat cottage with a mud roof, a seventh man in bronze scales leaning against the whitewashed wall, absently playing with the dangling straps of his dagger sheath as he stared up at the tips of dark clouds that peeked over the roofs.
Stable hands scurried about, eyes down, refusing to meet the gazes of the armed men, while suspicious customers speaking with a plain-dressed, dusty man whispered and gestured. He assured them, but did not convince them of their safety. How many had already left because of the nomads’ presence?
“The esci-tero is Duaros,” Kenosera told them. “I have known him since childhood. He is loyal to Ci Carrde and would never question his commands. The one speaking with all the ghosts is Gelleden.”
“Well, then, I’ll take the lead. Come.” Kjaelle strode forward with confident aplomb, catching the attention of every person in the area. Vantra snagged Kenosera’s hand and tugged him into motion, though he wished to remain by the building.
“Do not worry, they won’t touch you,” she told him. Fyrij tweeted in agreement, and he half-smiled. They did not buoy him, but the bitter fear surrounding him lessened.
The guards moved to intercept Kjaelle; she employed Ether Touch and floated through them. They shivered and cursed and grabbed their torsos as she halted next to Gelleden. Vantra dragged Kenosera through the distracted nomads, happy the mask hid her smile. She had never whisked through a living being before, though she had drifted through tree trunks and the like. Kjaelle’s bravery put hers to shame.
“We are here on behalf of the syimlin Passion—” the elfine began.
“Passion?” Gelleden asked, eyes wide.
“It’s true,” Kenosera said, subdued, emphasizing his words. “We just arrived with Passion.” Gelleden blinked, his eyes flicking across his face and down his frame, then nodded.
“If you plan to mosey around the city, horses will be fine. If you’re going outside the gates, I’ve got ronyx.”
“If they are quick, we will take the ronyx,” Kjaelle said. “I to you, I will leave my badge as a symbol of—”
He waved a hand. “No need,” he said. “I’m not the swiftest when it comes to recognizing acolytes, but you’re brimming with syim-Touch. And our mutual friend isn’t one to lie about such things.”
“You.”
Kjaelle looked over her shoulder at the esci-tero, who strode to them, fury causing his brown eyes to glint as sharp as his scales.
“I’ve little time to speak,” the elfine said, her near monotone much unlike her typical self. “My lord syimlin commands, and I obey.”
“Syimlin?” he asked, disgusted. “And which syimlin dares tread our soil?”
“Passion,” she said. “Consort to Death.” She leaned forward, her green eyes swirling like whirlpools. He arched back, disconcerted. “What calls him here is not a pleasant visit. You do not want to attract his attention, as the man on the docks did. I fear that attacking us did not improve his disposition.”
“They didn’t!” Gelleden asked, aghast. “They attacked Death’s Consort?” His ghostly customers gasped and planted their hands against their chests and grimaced in disgusted disbelief. The three of them nodded in unison.
“I do not know why, and we did not remain to discover it,” Kjaelle said. “While Passion remains at the docks, he asked us to continue with our urgent business, and that takes precedence.” She eyed Duaros. “Hope you are not part of it. Our lord syimlin is in a foul mood, and not apt to accept misunderstandings as an excuse.”
Duaros cleared his throat. “Words of false declares are not my concern.”
False declares? Vantra’s memory whiplashed back to the confrontation with the Voidbeast, and how she named Katta and Qira false declares, a strange terminology not part of typical syimlin expressions for those who claimed a mantle but did not hold one. How were these desert nomads involved with her? Or did a third party connect them?
“Then we’ve nothing more to discuss,” Kjaelle said, turning back to Gelleden. “The ronyx, if you are so kind.”
Vantra wondered if hurt pride drove him, but the Nevemere smacked his hand down on her shoulder. His palm sailed through and thumped his thigh as he stuttered a few tiptoes, surprised. He must have little experience with ghosts, to think he could interact with her Ether Form.
Gelleden growled as Kjaelle turned and regarded the man. “If you have no training as a spiritesti, you will never touch me and mine,” she said, cool essence wafting from her to enhance her displeasure.
He pulled his dagger, whipping it through her with a continuous motion.
She disappeared.
His shock and delight crashed when Kjaelle reappeared behind him and stuck her mouth in his ear. “Lack of knowledge is deadly in leaders,” she said before her essence dissipated. He whirled, far too late to detect her.
Vantra followed her flow better than she had when she used the same technique on Bregarde, but she still lost sight of her quickly enough.
Streaks of black against the lighter whitewashed walls became the only indication of the elfine’s passing, and the guards pivoted, heads whipping about, trying to find a stray wisp. She halted in the middle of them; they gasped and lowered their spears, too late to stab before she again disappeared. Duaros shouted in his native tongue, and the guards randomly struck with their spears, doing harm to their fellows rather than pricking their opponent.
Vantra sighed and looked at Gelleden; he already held the reins to a tall, white- and black-patched animal with spiral horns that came to a point high above its head. The barrel was thick like a horse’s, the shoulder eighteen or nineteen hands high, the legs thinner and ending in a cloven black hoof. The tail was thin to mid-rump, then expanded into a puff of hair that trailed to the ground. The narrow head had huge white ears, black around the eyes, and a black muzzle with another horn in the center. A stable hand checked the cinch on the saddle while others prepared the other two.
Vantra nudged Kenosera, who stared along with the other natives; he jerked, and she pushed him at the beast. He mounted and took the reins; she hoped his tenseness did not infect the ronyx. Nervous mounts did not bode well for riders.
“She’s good at that,” Gelleden said, glancing at the Nevemere, whose confusion grew into increasingly fearful jabs and slashes, which dug into fence and wall and flesh, but not Kjaelle.
“She is,” Vantra agreed. She leaned closer. “Do you know Keeling?”
He half-smiled. “Yes.”
“Do you know anything about his companions?” she asked in her native tongue, nodding up to Kenosera.
“They took them to the hollow,” he said, with an accent that reminded her of old voice recordings from a thousand years previous. “I’m sure he’s guessed that. Dough isn’t big on law enforcement, so there isn’t anyone who can confront Ci Carrde and demand them back. Our patrollers keep thieves under control and lock up the random drunk to sober up, they don’t have equipment or experience in retrieving kidnap victims.” His eyes snaked over to the occupied Nevemere before continuing. “The fort isn’t Merdia. My stable hands saw a group on ronyx going south, right after Kjethelwyn announced that Dough had an important passenger coming in with him. Look for Trevel’s people. They should be in sand-yellow tunic uniforms.”
“Thank you,” Vantra said as the stable hands led the two other ronyx to them. “Do you have native workers that the guards might harm?”
“I sent them home,” he said. “I don’t trust the nomads with Voristi and common folk.” He half-grinned, half-snarled. “And, after she’s through with them, I’m betting paranoia’s going to ride this group hard enough they end up hurting each other.”
They already bled; what more did he expect?
Vantra mounted; Kjaelle appeared in the third saddle before she wiggled into a comfortable position. “Go,” the elfine commanded. Kenosera took off, and they followed. A black shield popped up to intercept the weapons thrown at them. They clattered to the ground with soft thunks as they rounded the corner of the nearest building, then entered the busy street that veered to the gate.
“I asked him about your companions,” Vantra shouted. “He said Trevel’s people were headed to the hollow earlier, and to look for them.”
He waved his hand in acknowledgment and did not slow down.
