CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—TENDRILS AND FIRE

Shiro rushed forward, jumping over debris and tent fabric. He lurched over a stack of crates, landed and rolled over the sand as the flames on the hills exploded and lit the area with bright yellow light.

When he came up he swing his scimitar and cut through the tendrils at their base as they lifted the Scorpion up into the air. They loosened, instantly, the writing tendrils creaking and gashing forth plant juices.

The man flailed, dropped his scimitar and landed into the sand with a heavy grunt as the tendrils pulled back, but by no means retreated completely.

The severed pieces on the sand writhed and squirmed, the sticky petal-like buds still grasping onto the warriors skin. He shouted, pulling them off as fast as he could as if they contained a deadly poison that would eat his flesh away.

Then he grabbed his sword and stood up.

Raz too came up short, his sword raised as the tendrils almost seemed to perceive them. “What are they doing?”

Shiro made a frustrated sound. “Tch!”

Lurching forward, he cut the the tendrils into multiple sections and then finally they pulled back. He did not understand why the fire had so little effect.

Where did it go?

He moved forward.

“Be careful,” Shiro, Raz warned.

“Thank you for your concern,” he said. “But we must find out where these tendrils have gone.” He pushed into the grass. Here it was still alive and green while the hill smoldered in emotion and destruction wrought by Jessamine.

“Interesting,” she said, her tone light and airy. “I am surprised my flames had so little effect.”

“I think…” Shiro said, as he kicked about with his sandals. “I think they went under the ground.”

“They can do that?” asked Raz.

“I do not know, but where else would they—“

“Look out, Shiro,” Jessamine said, as if he were a child playing with bees.

The tendrils and shot forth from the grass all around them, writhing and whipping. The samurai’s heart leapt into his throat and he cried out, his sword flashing like a bar of dragging light.

The Scorpion behind him screamed in horror and Raz went in for the attack, his mother-of-pearl sword licking about like cold ice and sharp bone.

The tendrils fell to pieces, but even then men on the beach screamed. Shiro turned and saw them all, running, being dragged, or fighting their way to freedom as they lashed out with their scimitars.

Shiro growled.

“Do not worry,” Jessamine said.

And she hurled multiple fireballs onto the beach between the Scorpions and their position on the bottom of the hill. The fire exploded and burnt up everything in its path. The tendrils that had stretched out across the ground shriveled and died, loosening their grips on the men.

There were boats in the water, their rowers groaning with every pull of the oars as they left the beach and headed for the open waters where the majority of the army waited.

Shiro ran across the smoldering sand, stepping in places where his feet would not come into contact with the burning debris and vines from and Angor. How could it continue to attack them when over a thousand men had been taken earlier.

Those men, even now were being dragged to their deaths. The monster was occupied, was it not? How many tendrils does it have?!

Raz was right behind him as he approached the men on the beach. Ali was there, his sword held tightly in his grip, his knuckled white.

“You should not have stayed here,” Shiro reprimanded. “You are too important to this war effort, Ali. If we get past the monster, the army will need your leadership if we are to surprise the Florencians.”

“Enough, Shiro. I am staying with the men!”

Shiro growled wordlessly. “Fine,” he said. “Everyone! He screamed. Together. Form a line. Swords up! Bring torches or fire of any kind.”

“Yes!” Ali said with sudden excitement. “We come, we must ignite the supplies and the tents to create a cordon of protection from these vines, yes?”

“Hai!” Shiro said, nodding.

The men set to work, and Raz sighed that he was too important and far too powerful for such menial labor.

“You still owe me for my sitting room, Raz,” Ali spat. “Or do you not remember that you and Debaku did to my house? Hafza had twenty builders come and repair it. You know that cost a fortune, right?”

He laughed. “Yes, yes, brother. Do not worry. I will pay you.”

“With what? It has become clear you have no coin!” He bent down and grasp the side of a fallen tent. Half a dozen of the men helped him lift it up and pile it into the barricade of debris spanning the beast.

At first the barricade had been quite short, but the men on the beach slowly caught on to the plan as word was spread, and now they were all working to pile everything from tents to wooden crates and firewood upon in.

“Jessamine,” Shiro said. “If we are attacked, you will need to light the barricade.”

“I know, Shiro.”

“But not unless the attack looks like one that will cost us, yes?” Ali said.

“I know, you fools.” She laughed and whirled away in a plume of mist.

“She does not like to be told what to do,” Ali said.

“Would you?” asked Shiro, “if you were a princess as old has her?”

“She is old?” Raz asked.

“She is a jinni!” Ali said. “Of course she is old. They are immortal, man.”

“Oh right,” he said, scratching his head. “I wonder what that is like. She must feel like she is wasting her time, yes?”

“I do not know,” Shiro said. “But… She is no longer immortal.”

“What?” Raz asked. “What do you mean, Shiro?” he was genuinely curious about that, and Shiro realized he had made a mistake. He was a private man, especially so concerning Jessamine.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

“Ha!” He slapped his thigh like his brother liked to do. “You think me a dolt, Shiro?”

Ali raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Shiro said. “I think you are a distractible man.”

“Ha!” he scoffed in surprised. He pointed with a finger. “The foreigner knows me better than most women.”

“Of course he does,” Ali said sardonically as he hefted a crate and dumped it into the barricade, “seeing as how you know most women for a night and little more, you dog.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Raz laughed heartily. “That is right. But Leilyn is a little different, yes?”

“Is she?” asked Ali. “It seems you were making eyes at the princess,” Ali said, waving his hand derisively when he said the world “princess.”

“What—the jinni?”

“Not the jinni, you fool. Samira, man.”

“Oh right.” He chortled. “She is very attractive, yes?”

Ali growled.

“Oh, sorry. That is right. You are married. I should not say such things in your presence, brother. We would not want Hafza squeeze your balls too hard, yes?”

“Damn you,” Ali spat. “You camel lover!”

Raz laughed, and even Shiro could not help but sniff with amusement, but he hid it well when Ali looked his way. Hafza was a good woman—and not nearly so dangerous as Raz made her out to be.

Or is it, that he simply thinks she is so terrible because she is like that with him?

A deep seated fear that was inside his gut came to the forefront. He glanced at his friends, listened to them as they argued like fools. Shiro smiled. He would do anything to keep them from becoming hurt.

It was too bad they were so stubborn. Especially Ali. Perhaps Shiro should find some turtlenuts to give him? “Be careful,” he said suddnely.

“Wha—what is it, Shiro?” Ali asked, his soberness increasing by degrees.

“Nanimo,” said Shiro. “But keep your eyes open. We do not know, when the Angor’s tendrils will return, yes?”

They nodded. “Yes,” Raz said. “You are right.”

And as if they were listening, the Angor suddenly attacked. Something burst forth, and sand rained down over them as hundreds of tendrils writhed above, looming over their barricade.

“I know,” Jessamine said as she appeared to light them. She hurled the fire as the men screamed for readiness, their blades and spears and bows bristling.

The barricade exploded with flames in multiple sections and because lamp oil had been a part of the mixture of debris, certain sections alighted more quickly. The hot fire licked up at the Angor’s tendrils and they receeded.

“Haha!” Ali laughed triumphantly. “Go back to your mother, you fools!”

“Are you calling vines ‘fools’?”

Ali shrugged. “Eh!”

The sand was pushed and spread about as the tendrils behind the barricade lowered themselves so that they were no longer visible behind the flames.

Sand fell.

The flames guttered slightly.

More sand fell.

“Oh my gods!” growled Ali. “These stupid vines are burying the flames?!”

He went closer, and so did the men.

“Perhaps,” said Raz, we can push the flames atop them while they work?”

“But how?” asked Ali.

“Like this!” Raz shouted, and he grunted, kicking out against a flaming stack of crates. They fell over on the other side of the barricade and the vines creaked and writhes as their juices hissed in the flames.

“Not bad,” Ali said.

Shiro nodded. If anything, Raz was an excellent fighter, certainly better than Shiro—and more brave certainly. Or is he simply foolish?

The sand in front of the barricade on their side burst forth. Shiro covered his eyes as fast as he could, but the impact still stung his skin.

When Shiro opened his eyes, Jessamine was gone. The tendrils whipped and snapped—and the worst part about it all was that it was clear to Shiro that they had burrowed under the sand to avoid the fired barricade.

He lurched to his feet in one swift move and ran back toward the line of shouting men. The skirl of swords against the Angor’s tendrils filled the air. Men were wrapped and tossed, or pulled down against the ground, immobilized, while others defended themselves well, cutting vine and polyp where thick monster juices oozed from the sheer-faced stocks of the severed vines.

They writhed and beat and creaking like wood in a forest.

“Fight!” Ali shouted. “Do not let them break through. They are only vines! Cut them down!”

Shiro gasped and moved up with the men, his sword flashing hotly against the whipping tendrils that shot in sometimes like spears. One man was run through, killed instantly, his body limp and hanging from the vine that had pierced him as flowery polyps wrapped about his body stickily.

The samurai swung his blade and cut the Scorpion down. He was dead, but at least he would not have to serve as a puppet or as food to this harrowing beast.

A blue light flashed above Shiro and he glanced up, saw Jessamine above as she hurled bright flaming fireballs at the tendrils. With each impact, the fireballs exploded, oily and slick, their flames spreading and catching, burning with magical brilliance and with rapid hunger.

The vines writhed and twitched and died in those areas, but there were far too many. The flames were very hot—far hotter than a normal fire, forcing the men back from those areas.

This was a good thing, because it made them fight in areas where they were needed, for where those fires licked and burned, the vines died quickly and fought no more.

Shiro cut another vine into a wet oozing stump, when three more shot toward him, one of him the sharp spear-like tips that had been used to puncture through the men.

He jumped back to avoid them, but unlike a man who lunged forward, the vines changed course midflight, held up from their stocks farther away. Shiro growled, cutting away the vines as the stocks continued pushing forward.

One of them wrapped around his leg and tightened like a beast that meant to break his bones with the sheer force of its muscular body.

Raz suddenly lunged into Shiro’s space and cut the vine in three separate segments. The dead parts loosened upon Shiro’s ankle and he was free.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Do not mention it!” Raz said and grunted as he cut away another attack.

Behind them a battle horn sounded and men rushed up the beach. Shiro’s heart soared and a smile came to his face.

As the men came up upon the sand, their swords raised and their fresh arms swinging, another horn bellowed in the night and the previous line of men fell back, surely to give them a rest.

But it was then that the Angor’s vines desisted, retreating back through the sound where the tendrils had punched holes to avoid the fire.

The night suddenly became quiet, save for the questions of the men and their collective movements, where even the soft silken cloth upon their skin, could be heard. It was the sigh and movement of an army of men pattering on the sand.

“What—just like that?” Ali asked. “Gone?”

“The Angor,” Shiro said with a gasp of air. A trail of sweat was dripping down the sides of his face. “It is intelligent. It knows there are too many ready blades, I think.”

Ali nodded. “You may be right, Shiro.”

“Kami-sama, I am thirsty.” His mouth felt dry, and the pools where he and Jessamine had made love came to mind. Surely the army had been collecting water during the rains, but with the destruction of the camp, there would be no fresh water here.

Raz laughed. “We just finished a battle and all you can think of is your thirst, man?”

“I was not the one drinking turtlenut milk and acting the fool a few hours ago,” Shiro said.

Shrugging with uncaring defeat, Raz conceded the point.

“Stay on guard!” Ali shouted. “We do not know if the tendrils will ambush us again.”

Abbaas strode up the beach. “I have your five-hundred men.”

Shiro and Ali both nodded. “Good,” they said in unison, and they shared a glance.

“So,” Ali said. “We wait and hold the beach until we receive the other half of the reinforcements?”

Shiro shook his head. “No.”

“Remember all those men, brother,” Raz said. “Even now, they are being dragged to their deaths.”

“And you care?” Ali asked. “I distinctly remember finding trails of dead bodies in the dungeon of Azurbada, where we finally found you doing battle with a floor boss. You barely cared about the men you lost. I fact—after throwing a bit of treasure to the survivors, you completely forgot about them.”

Raz shrugged. “Heh. They were mercenaries, They were not my men, Ali.”

Ali looked at him skeptically. “Still…”

“It does not matter now,” Shiro said. “There are fifteen hundred Scorpions missing from or army and we must try to save them. We should move out now and let the rest of the reinforcements catch up with us.”

Ali nodded. His own skin was glistening with sweat. “I agree, Shiro. What about our water situation? I am starting to feel quite thirsty myself.”

“There are pools,” Shiro said, pointing, “not far to the south.

Captain Abbaas nodded. “I will send men to go and collect water.”

“What of the Angor?” asked Ali.

“The pools are on the shore,” Shiro said. “Have them go in boats. They can spend little time upon land while they collect the water.”

“Excellent idea,” Ali said.

“I will be sure to send them,” Abbaas said. “In the meantime, who will lead these five hundred Scorpions?”

“I will,” Ali said, as if that was obvious.

“Are you certain, high vizier? If we lose you, the war effort—“

“If we lose here the war effort is done anyway,” he interrupted. “There is no reason for me not to fight. If we cannot destroy this monster, and gods save us—rescue our men—then none of it matters anyway. We might as well pack up and head for Ashahnai.”

Looking at him askance, Abbaas clearly tried to hide a derisive smile. “I do not believe we will be doing that.”

“Of course not, man. So I will lead the men.”

“Very well, my lord.”

“Then we should go,” Shiro said. “Right now.”

Ali turned. “Form up! We move out! Keep to a long rank, and be prepared to fight! We move out!”

The rank and file commanders repeated the orders and the five-hundred Scorpions were quickly arrayed in a neat line of two-hundred men across and three ranks deep. Two-hundred men were left in the back as a reserve.

Ali had not ordered that complex array, but he nodded with satisfaction. “There is a reason they call these men the elite of the Abassir Empire’s fighting force.”

“Mm,” Shiro noised.

Jessamine appeared and the men around her gasped and parted for her as she approached them. “If anything, Darius knew how to form an army, did he not?”

“I never doubted that,” Raz said.

“You never noticed, deer sweet fop.”

“Hey!”

“Serves you right for trying to score points, you fool.”

“I am not trying to score points with the jinni—she is Shiro’s woman.”

“Mm,” Shiro noised.

Jessamine smiled, touched Shiro’s exposed shoulder as she circled around to his back where she reached up with her other arm across his chest.

Shiro glanced down at her looking up at him. You like to make a show, he conveyed.

The smile on her full lips deepened. Then she said. “I am tired from my exertions, Shiro.” She sighed heavily. “Fighting in the physical realm takes a lot of magic, and I fear your friend the Angor is slathering even more than it was before. It wants my succulent magic.”

He nodded. “Go and rest,” he said.

“Oh, Shiro,” she said, her tone silky and full of sensual innuendo, “I intend to.” Then she pulled away, her hand lingering in his as she dematerialized into a swirl of blue mist.

When Shiro glanced back to the men, they all had wide eyes. Ali swallowed thickly. “Gods, Shiro.”

“What?”

“She’s every man’s dream,” Raz said.

He laughed, feeling a hot flame touché his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck. Except she’s not always like that. She was just showing off.

And then his moment with her during their time in Darshuun when she had ambushed him while taking a bath came to his mind. Or maybe she is like that…