CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—A JINNI’S AURA

The mist here was almost a physical heady thing that was hard to breathe.

Almost…

Debaku looked on at the Angor proper. The monster was massive, and the air shook and vibrated with each breath.

He frowned and glanced toward Samira, who looked at him without saying a word. He then said, “I thought the Angor was a plant based monster—but it breathes like it has lungs.”

She nodded. “I know. It is the strangest thing I have ever seen.”

“You do not know why?”

She shook her head, clearly trying to use as few words as possible. Despite their whispering, Samira thought it best not to linger. The nodes, she explained, had a level of autonomy separate from the main part of the monster, One node might become agitated due to their presence, while the others exhibited none at all.

Still, that was her theory—one she told Debaku she did not want to put to the test. She was afraid of the monster—and seeing it’s mountainous form, like a massive flour petal, wrapped and looming overheard like a mystical structure of arcane brilliance and dark magic, it breathed, as if asleept.

Can the beast awaken?

From the east a powerful magical aura bloomed forth. The Black Cobra sensed it almost immediately, and so did Samira, because she turned her head in that direction. He sensed it for what it was.

“That is the power of a jinni,” he said.

She nodded. “I know.”

“It is Jessamine. We need to leave here and help Shiro.”

“Very well,” she said.

And they ran across the land once they were far enough from Angor’s central form. They practically flew and bounded across the landscape and the hills, and as they moved past the creatures nodes, which were spread out over no small amount of land, the first signs of the creature’s exploits became known to them, as men dead and alive, were dragged toward the beast.

Debaku cut one free, then another, though he did not stop to aid or assist them in any way. There were thousands of these men, well on their way to being dragged through here.

These were simply the first, and Debaku and Samira could not free them all. Indeed, they could not even free a small minority of them.

They were two people.

Not enough.

We need Shiro and the army.

He worried for the samurai. If the venerable jinni was using her magical powers to assist, then they were clearly in real danger from the Angor, for rarely had he seen Jessamine exert her abilities.

As jinni went—she was lazy. The thought brought a wry smile to his face. Lazy and arrogant. He moved, freeing another Scorpion who moaned. By now, after being dragged for hours, the man would be exhausted, thirty, tired, perhaps well beat up from the rough treatment.

At this juncture, he would be surprised if very many of the men could scream for help. The vines came back, but Debaku warded them off by cutting the stock in several more places.

It whipped about and he hit it aside with the flat of his blade. “Be gone!”

“Do not exert yourself,” Samira said, practically landing behind him. Her ability to leap and bound was far beyond that of Debaku’s, though he suspected her overall ability to fight and use magic was far smaller than his own.

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He did not say this to her.

“The Angor will sense you,” she added in way of explanation.

“As it surely must sense Jessamine.”

She nodded. “Indeed.”

As they spoke, Jessamine’s powerful jinni aura faded and altogether disappeared. Samira said as much, but they continued. “It only means she is gone back into the void,” he said in way of explanation. “If she were in trouble, Shiro would unleash his power, and we would know.”

“I understand.”

And then suddenly a new power revealed itself, but in another direction. Debaku’s feet halted and he turned. With a gasp, he realized he recognized that magical aura.

But…

“It cannot be!”

He took two steps forward—in the direction of the Angor.

“What is wrong?” asked Samira. “What are you doing?”

“It cannot be!”

“What cannot be?” she asked. “Mar’a Thulian—what do you speak of.”

His heart was hammering inside his chest and a cold sweat had broken out on Debaku’s face. His body had never reacted so in his life, except when…

“Archaemenes…”

“What?” Samira snapped. “The jinni Archaemenes?”

“I sense his aura.”

“Why do you care—and how do you know this jinni’s aura…” But she stopped midsentence as she looked into his snake-like eyes. “I see.”

He glanced back toward the beach. He had sensed Jessamine’s aura, and then it had gone. He told Samira as much that the lack of Shiro’s own aura and that of Razul’s, could only mean that she had gone back into the void.

They were safe.

It was obvious.

And yet—he had to go to Shiro—to help with the war effort. We must attack the Angor. And yet… Archamenes. I know I sense you!

Debaku then looked back to where that aura came from. To Samira, he said quickly, “I must go.”

“What?”

“I am sorry—I must go.”

He took two strides forward as Samira snapped, “Stop!” in all the royal air she could deliver the singular word in. “You cannot abandon this quest. What of your friends?”

“What of my friend Archaemenes?!”

“You do not even know if it is—“

“It is him!” Debaku snarled. “I would know his aura anywhere! At any time! Do not question me on this, Ashah!” She recoiled slightly. Debaku noticed her reaction and he took in a deep breath. “I must apologize. But I thought him lost to the void for many years.”

“I cannot persuade you to stay?”

“No.”

She nodded. “Then you must do want you think is right. I will go to Shiro and the others.”

“But how will they know what you have told me is true?” he asked.

Samira seemed to take pause. She then lifted one of her scimitars out of its scabbard. “Give me your sword, Mar’a Thulian.”

He handed it over reluctantly, taking hers in exchange. “I will tell them that as a sign of your trust, you have given me your sword. Will that suffice?”

Debaku nodded. “It will.”

“I hope you find what it is you are looking for.”

“Thank you.”

Then he ran for the direction where Archaemenes’ aura was. By his judgment, it would take him some time to reach the location—but reach it he would. If Archaemenes needed his help, Debaku would give it.

The jinni was his dear friend. If the possibility that they could be reunited again exited, then Debaku had to take it. His heart soared with the very thought.

Because their bond had been broken, he no longer benefited from Archaemenes’ gift of life, and also, he could not know for certain that this was Achaemenes, but the aura was the same as the one he remembered from the jinni.

It has to be him!

Inside, he felt a terrible pang of conscience. In doing this, he was abandoning Shiro—abandoning the effort he worked so hard to attain. Debaku owed him nothing, save for his friendship, and what he did now, was not friendship.

Or perhaps it was. Perhaps Shiro would understand. Debaku had helped him save Jessamine. In this, the samurai could help him in reuniting with Archaemenes. It was only natural to assume such a thing.

In completely trust, he held Shiro. Debaku would continue to have faith that his actions were indeed the right ones.

Deep in his heart, the niggle of betrayal scratched.

Samira watched the black-skinned Mar’a Thulian rush off through the mist, until is form, nothing but a silhouette for a time. His sandals pattered noisily over the ground as he receded completely.

Something did not feel right, but Samira could not put a fine point on what it was, precisely. I know something is off here. Should I follow him? No…

No, she would go to Shiro, like she said she would, like the Mar’a Thulian expected her too. It was then that she realized she didn’t even know his name. It mattered not, for her reason to be here was to kill the Angor—and these men and their army were going to help her do it.

It was the only way she could go back to her brother—to show him that she was worthy to return even after so many years of betrayal. And if he chose to have her head cut off? At least she will have done something during her life that benefited the empire—to help secure it. She knew all too well the weak footing her sandaled foor rested upon.

Samira was first and foremost, an hashashin—a spy. If she was killed as a punishment for her crimes, then at least she would die knowing she did something worthy, something worthy of remembrance even in the pages of the Epic Sword and Sorcery Entertainments.

The Lost Princess of Ashahnai would return.