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The three apprentices ran up, panting, chasing Faithful. “The cat said the hillmen are attacking and you want us,” Ishak gasped. “I don’t know how we understood—”
“I didn’t understand anything.” Kourrem pouted. “You and Kara said—”
“Hush!” Alanna ordered. She looked at Coram. “I have to be a shaman—” she began.
The former guardsman was still instructing the boy archers as women and children streamed past them into Alanna’s big tent. “Do what ye must do,” he said tersely. He grabbed a strong young woman by the arm. “Ye! Grab a spear and stand t’the defense!” She stared at him for a moment, then ran to obey. The older men of the village, those who hadn’t been included on the hunt, were already gathering around Coram, accepting his leadership. More women were grabbing spears and axes, leaving their children to the charge of others in the tent.
Alanna led her apprentices to a hill overlooking both the tents and the eastern approaches, from which the now-shrieking winds came. Kara saw the attackers first, hidden behind a wall of dust.
She pointed out five green-robed men astride ponies. “Their shamans wear green, too,” she shouted over the wind. “The dust before them is alive. When they came before, Akhnan Ibn Nazzir could not fight them, and the dust devils killed three men.”
“I’m not Akhnan Ibn Nazzir!” Alanna shouted back. Drawing the crystal sword, she focused her attention on the length of the blade, holding it directly before her. Now was the time to put its energy to use: It would extend her ability to command things to break and split far more than she could have done normally. She shouted the spell, sending her energy streaking down the smoky blade and into the earth just a few yards in front of the oncoming riders. The earth grumbled and cracked, forming a deep trench. Their own frontal vision ruined by the dust devils, the hillmen in the first rank rode into the trench.
“That’ll stop ’em for a minute!” Alanna yelled. “Kourrem, do you have some string?” The girl pulled several hanks of thread from her pocket. She was never without them these days. “Try to hobble as many of their ponies as you can!” Kourrem grinned and started to work, her heavy brows pulled together as she worked.
“Kara!” Alanna continued. “Force the wind back into their faces!” Both girls tore off their veils in order to see more clearly as Alanna turned to her third apprentice. “Ishak—d’you remember how to throw fire?”
“Yes!” he cried.
“When they get close enough, scorch them out of the saddle!”
Ishak bellowed, “What about the dust devils and their shamans?”
“Leave them to me!”
The sound of the high winds changed: Kara was at work, her burnoose whipping frantically around her. The first pony stumbled and fell, thanks to Kourrem, tossing his rider. Flames soared from Ishak’s fingers, enveloping a big man.
The hillmen were leaping their ponies over the trench. Once more Alanna pointed the crystal blade and sent her Gift into the ground before the dust devils, breaking it open. The brown columns of dust passed over the second trench as easily as they had the first, and Alanna turned her attention to them, reaching out with her mind to see what they were.
They were mindless blots of energy, wielded by the shamans and collecting desert sand and dirt to give themselves shape. She knew better than to use the sword to split them in two: then she would have twice as many dust devils to contend with. Instead she sent a whip of violet fire at the shamans, determined to end the problem at its source. One dropped to the ground when her magic reached him, screeching in agony. A second streak of fire, red in color, picked off another shaman—Ishak had seen her purpose, and was helping.
Varicolored shields were forming around the remaining three; the element of surprise was gone, and they were defending themselves. Now Alanna called up a sparkling, amethyst-colored wall that encircled one of them, cutting off his air. His pony panicked and reared, dropping him in the dirt as he fought to breathe. When she was sure of his death, Alanna applied the same trick to another shaman. The remaining wizard was already fighting off Ishak’s red flame—and losing. With the deaths of the last two, the dust devils collapsed.
Hillmen thundered past them, their numbers reduced. Kourrem sagged and dropped, exhausted from the effort of maintaining five spells at once. Kara was looking white and ill, but with the deaths of the shamans the winds had also stopped. Alanna made her sit down. Ishak was still flaming the raiders, laughing merrily as they tried to put themselves out.
“It’s beautiful, Alanna!” he cried loudly, not realizing the winds were gone. “The power is beautiful!”
“Look!” Kara gasped, pointing to the west. Halef Seif and his men were riding furiously into the village, their swords ready. Caught between Ishak, Coram and the fiercely fighting old men, women, and the boys, as well as the young warriors of the tribe, the hillmen didn’t stand a chance. Alanna picked off those who tried to escape, so that none survived the raid.
The moment the fighting was over, Alanna ushered her apprentices back to the well. Here Farda was already putting women to work cleaning and bandaging wounds. Alanna made Kara and Kourrem sit, then briskly rolled up her sleeves. “Anyone killed?” she asked Farda, washing her hands.
The big midwife shook her head. “Hassam and Mikal are the worst hurt—Hassam with a head wound, Mikal with an open gash on his thigh. Will you see to one?”
Alanna nodded and entered her immense tent, feeling Ishak behind her. The wounded lay quietly on the carpets placed before the plain altar, waiting for someone to see to their hurts. Clearly Farda had taught the women how to care for injuries, because every matron in the village was cheerfully at work. Some of the hurt, such as Hassam, were boys, but they were as silent as the men.
Alanna knelt beside Hassam, smiling at him. A wide-eyed girl, not long a wife, hurried to stand beside her with a basin of hot water and clean bandages. Alanna dipped one in the water, using it to carefully rinse Hassam’s wound clean. “What happened to the hillman who gave you this?” she asked jokingly. “Is his spirit looking for a place to rest?”
“Coram cut him down while I fought him,” the boy replied, wincing as she gently pulled his hair away from the wound. “He said honor is not necessary when fighting thieves.”
“I’ll need healing salve, thread, and a very fine needle. Tell Farda,” Alanna instructed the waiting girl, who nodded and hurried off. Alanna examined the wound closely. “I think Coram told me the same thing when I was your age—and that wasn’t so long ago. Hold still.” She closed her eyes and reached out into his body, searching out the full extent of the wound’s damage. She grimaced inwardly at the sick feeling in the boy’s skull: He had a bad concussion. Still, it could have been far worse: The bone was uncracked, and there was no bleeding in his brain. She squeezed the boy’s hand. “You bruised your head,” she told him, knowing he would have no idea what “concussion” meant. “You’ll be dizzy and sick for a while, and you’ll have trouble standing—so don’t try it. Now. I’m helping you to sleep so I can sew your wound in peace. All right?” Hassam nodded, his large eyes full of trust. She placed her hands on his once more, reaching for the warm fire of her Gift. This time it flowed softly and peacefully down her arms, making her feel nearly as relaxed as the boy, who went to sleep instantly. She stopped for a moment and sighed, before pulling her mind back to her surroundings. The girl had returned with the materials she needed. Deftly Alanna thrust undyed thread through the needle’s eye. Glancing at the watching Ishak, she said, “Make yourself useful, will you? Hold him.”
The young Bazhir obeyed, holding the sleeping boy’s head gently but firmly between his hands. “Won’t it hurt?” he asked apprehensively as Alanna tested the needle’s point.
“Ouch! Not now—not after I’ve used the Gift to put him to sleep. Steady.” Quickly she set her stitches, thanking the gods yet again for the training she had received from the palace Healers during the Tusaine War. The stitches in, she cut the thread and bandag
ed the wound, using healing salve and a clean bandage. Finally she replaced Ishak’s hands with her own. Hassam never stirred. His slumber deepened as she used her Gift again, shoving back the damage done by a hillman’s axe. Dimly she could hear Faithful yowling behind her, but her mind was fixed on her work. When she had aided nature all she could, she released Hassam into a real sleep. With luck he would be well soon, with an interesting scar for the maidens to admire.
She stood, her ears roaring. Preoccupied by Hassam’s injury, she thought at first she had risen too quickly. Then the sick, weak feeling swelled up from her midsection, and she swore even as her legs buckled. In the excitement of fighting, of keeping control over the crystal sword, of her worry over the tribe’s young ones, she had overextended, using more of her Gift than she could afford to give away.
I’ll never learn, she thought ruefully as she fainted.
It was fully dark when she woke. Faithful was howling urgently right into her ear, and a slim hand gripped her shoulder, shaking her. Wearily she opened her eyes, trying to focus without much success. “It’s really better if you let me rest,” she muttered. “I just overdid it a little, that’s all.”
“Faithful says to wake you,” Kara apologized. “He says it’s Ishak.”
A bolt of alarm shot through Alanna, and she fought to sit up. Bone-deep weariness tugged at her like chains, trying to drag her down. “Ishak? Bless him, what’s he doing now?” Her alarm was even greater when she realized that the ember at her neck was warm—no, hot.
He has the sword, Faithful cried. While the tribe met with the Voice, he came here and took the sword!
Her heart thudding sickly, Alanna lurched to her feet. Her head spun. She held it, forcing her eyes to remain open. She was in no shape for a showdown. Gripping the ember-stone, she sent a plea to the Goddess, for Ishak’s sake. Strength washed into her, steadying her shaking limbs.
Closing her eyes, she reached out, searching for a sign—any sign—of her wayward apprentice. Her mind touched the web of magic that was the crystal sword as it vibrated with new heights of fury. The weapon had come to accept her commands, just barely, but it would never accept Ishak. Opening her eyes, she raced toward the hill where they had found the raiders that morning.
He was shining in his own red fire, the sheathed sword in his hand. An orange glow surrounded the weapon, battling with the young man’s magic.
