CHAPTER TWELVE—PATTERN
Somewhere in the distance a bird cawed from some high place—perhaps within a tree, and yet here there seemed to be no trees, or very few. They were old, rotting and dead things. Some of them had fallen over and were half petrified into stone—and everywhere there were patches of dirt and rocks and thick grasses.
Samira stopped suddenly, raising her hand for Debaku and Shiro to do the same. She stood still and did not move.
Finally, unable to wait any longer, the samurai finally asked her what the matter was, his tone low and barely a breath.
“You do not have to be so quiet,” she said. “The Angor… it can sense vibrations within the ground, but voices, it cannot. Not unless you scream, Strange One.”
“My name is Shiro,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“Why have we stopped?”
“That,” said Debaku, “is what I would also like to know.”
“I am questing out with my magic—to sense the Angor and and its movements. Its magic is a feint thing, as you have already seen for yourself, but there are ways to sense its path. It takes time.”
“How?” asked Debaku.
“The Gaia,” she said in way of explanation. “If you can sense the natural auras of the earth, of the plants and of the living things, you can sense their reaction to the Angor. Mostly, they recoil.”
“Plans can recoil?”
She sniffed. “Not physically, no. But outside the depth of perceptions of most, yes, they can. The Angor feeds upon flesh and magic, and substance. It is a destroyer and a devourer of magic.”
“Ah,” Shiro said. “I understand.”
A luminescent swirl of mist appeared behind Shiro. He was so used to Jessamine coming and going whenever she pleased, that it did not bother him—and neither did it bother Shiro.
However Samira whirled on her heel in sudden fright, then visible relaxed. “It is you,” she said.
“It is me,” Jessamine echoed. “What have we here?”
“The Angor,” Shiro said. “Samira is questing for its magical aura.”
She made a silky noise of amusement and curiosity. Then lazily she thrust out her hip and put her and there. With her free arm, Jessamine opened her palm in the other direction. “It’s over there.” She paused. “Hmm. And over there--and over there! Very interesting.”
“I cannot see anything in this fog,” Shiro said.
“It seems most unnatural,” Jessamine added, and then she disappeared.
“She is right,” Debaku said. He sounded somewhat tense as his hand rested on his scabbard.
“It is the area,” Samira said. “Part of it is the natural steam vents.”
“I was here before,” Debaku said. He turned and looked at Shiro. “There are many of them.”
Samira had her eyes closed, but she nodded anyway. “That is right. But the must is not wholly natural. It is also part of the the disguise the Angor—a measure it used when hunting, and the way to disguises itself. After a moment she said, “Yes,” though more to herself than to any of them.
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“I hope Ali and the others are all right,” Shiro said.
Samira breathed in deeply and Shiro regarded her as she stretched out her hand. “I can sense… Yes.”
“What is it?”
“The Angor is stretching out toward the west.”
Shiro shared a glance with Debaku. They both knew what that meant. The men were probably under attack. “And you said it would… ‘drag’ the men?”
“Yes,” she said, turning to look at him. “The Angor feeds upon magic and flesh. The flesh it can devour dead, but the magic, it must consume from living beings—and even your army has feint traces of magic.” She put her hands on her hips. “I would say that you bringing this army here.” She paused. “It is like bringing a banquet table to the Angor.”
Shiro groaned.
“They do not call this place the Isles of Sand and Bones without a reason,” Samira said. “Few come here and survive—especially in larger groups. Shiro…” She said his name strangely. “That is your name, yes?”
He nodded. “Hai.”
“Shiro—you are fortunate that I am here.”
“It seems… that you are right.”
“We may be able to kill the Angor—us three.”
“Us four,” Jessamine said, though she had not appeared.
Samira glanced about, though mostly with her eyes. It was clear she did not want to lack the dignity by glancing about searching for a disembodied jinni.
“Us four,” she repeated. “We may be able to kill it. As for your men being dragged to their demise—you may be able to save many of them. But you need to organize.”
Shiro let out a heavy breath. “I wish Raz and Ali could hear this conversation.”
“There is time,” said Samira. She stretched out her hand and spread her fingers. “The Angor moves slowly, even slower when dragging its pray back to be devoured. But we are in for a long hard fight. Make no mistake. We are now in a war with the Angor—and I do not know that we can win.”
“We must try,” Debaku said, glancing up at her. He was bending down on one knee, a small amount of wet dirt in his hand. He lifted it to his nose and gave it a smell. From where he crouched, Shiro could also smell the earth.
Samira was still standing. Shiro did the same. “What do you suggest?” he asked.
“Go back to meet your people”—she waved her hand dismissively—“that ‘vizier and the buffoon. Tell them what is happening. Organize a force to come after the vines and to free your men being dragged to their doom.”
“Why me?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “Even I have heard of the Black Cobra of Mar’a Thul. He is quite the adventurer and assassin. I can use him to scout the Angor and to show him what I have spoken of. He can confirm all once we have met up again.”
“Why not me?” he repeated.
Because mommy and daddy must do this on their own, Shiro, Jessamine conveyed, though she did not do so in a manner that bespoke contempt or frustration. She seemed amused.
“She is right,” Debaku said. “I am better suited to this purpose, Shiro.”
He took a moment, but then finally he relented, knowing that his friend spoke the truth. Debaku was more powerful than Shiro in many ways. He was faster, his magic stronger, and he was stealthier than the samurai would ever be.
“All right,” he said in agreement. “I will go back and organize a force to help our men.”
“You come back in this direction,” she said. “You will find your men on the way back, and again when you return. Free as many as possible. Remember that the Angor can sense your magical aura, so hide it—unless you want to be seen.”
“Want to be?”
“As a distraction,” Debaku added.
Samira smiled. “And that is why I chose to take your friend with me, Strange One.”
“Hmph,” he sniffed. “I thought it was ‘Shiro’ now.”
She shrugged. “You are still strange.”
Says the Dar Shaw outcast come from a royal line if succession in the Ashah capital, Jessamine mused.
“I do sense a peculiar aura around you…” she added musingly. “I would not be surprised if the Angor thought you quite delicious. You may be able to use that. Now go.”
He nodded. “All right! I will see you soon.”
The both nodded to the isekai.
As Shiro ran at a pace he could sustain, keeping his aura hidden from the Angor, Jessamine conveyed new words to him. You know, Shiro, I’m starting to sense a pattern with this.
“With—with what?” he asked, his breath coming in and out.
You’re always running about trying to save your friends.
He almost laughed. “It is both a curse and a blessing.”
How do you mean, love?
“It is—it is a blessing because… I have—friends,” he panted. “And it is a curse, because I am afraid of losing any one of you.”
How sweet,
“Have I ever told you,” he said, “that you have a cruel streak, Jinni?”
Amusement came back. Never.
The samurai ran.